By | 1 May 2017

… 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.

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