… 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.
1 May 2017