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.