is that it can feel like those days in deepest winter that are muffled once in the blue-cold and again in the white frosting everything, gathering more feathers as they swoop down mutely from a pillowcase sky.
There is a softness to some happiness, something easy and so light in its each individual snowflake that it's hard to believe how much density, how heavy it becomes.
Working on the final bit of the peace poem for Wick. I am sleepy and feeling like an afternoon nap is in order. But outside the sun is making a rare appearance and it seems wrong to crawl into bed, curling away from all that light.
I will be a field
where all the flowers
on my housedress
bloom at once.