… I must go in. Memory’s fog is rising.

Selected Letters, Emily Dickinson
In the corners mould is blooming

like grey and black snowflakes.

Next to the window, white paint

blisters; water swells its skin. 
On winter mornings moisture

ghosts the glass, announcing

the divide between outside

and us. Warm on the inside,
under this roof. A cat curled

up in the blankets. Hot tea

steams in mugs. The garden is wet

and glistening. It rained some time
during the night. When I rose

in the dark I heard the scatter

of drops on leaves. The lift

and fall of your breath. The damp.