The kitchen window is streaked and spotted
on the outside from months-gone
The air has since turned frigid;
small birds flit & dance on the barren bush
just beyond the sill.
Inside, I stand resting
in the sun that streams through
just above the old porcelain sink.
The dishes there are finished
and last wisps of steam rise;
the children are occupied with holiday gifts
as I forget for a moment
that it isn’t all right.
Another notebook fragment from December finally coalesces.
I walked in the woods today
far under scattered clouds —
though it didn’t make me a boy again.
No dog by my side
circling ahead and back,
no sense of wonder at where I might emerge.
Patches of snow from an indecisive December
lay astride the path and filled in hollows.
Straining for the distant sound
of my mother’s voice
calling me in from play,
I heard only birds calling.
Nearly a month from moment to paper, when everything but renunciation seems a struggle.