Early sunlight fires the snow
until the world is pure glare—
as if there’s nothing left of landscape
but the future, the whole yard
an endless blank page
I’m not sure I’ll be able to fill.
The dog hovers by the door,
half delirious with impatience,
but I ignore him and turn instead
to the cobalt plates in the dishwasher,
the waxy green ivy
tumbling over the counter.
Through the archway the oak table
leans, as always, to one side
and the raw silk curtains
reflect a glassy shade of sea.
I pour coffee into a mug and add creamer
until it’s richly brown.
On days like this, only the intimacy
of things can rescue me.
can wait a little longer.