There are no birds singing. It’s too cold for that.
The thermometer outside the kitchen window, shows a thin trickle of red just above zero.
Warm water from the tap takes time to come. A hollow sound fills a hollow teapot.
The burner glows red, steam expanding, it’s sound the only sound.
It’s a good morning for something warm - oatmeal maybe - no.
Too much trouble, too many things to follow through on.
Not quite ready to stay in bed all day, though that time could be coming -
I push that thought along with all others out for a moment - pouring cold cereal into a cold bowl. The shiver of silverware, the fridge comes on harmonizing with the kettle on the stove,
the bass of the furnace below.
There is so much sadness in slicing the banana with the spoon.
So much that’s senseless in pouring milk. The falling and the floating of raisins.
The mocking of oat shaped hearts and little life saving circles. The oh and the oh no.
The house as small as it is large, as dark as it is light, as cold as it is…
I don’t want to go out.
When I go out I don’t want to come back.
There are books I should be reading, words I should repeat to myself, but I’m passed that.
The dialogue is one sided now, the argument is definitive, though no longer scathing.
I’m kinder to myself than you might imagine. There are strawberries at lunch, oranges at three. But at the end of the day - it’s always the end of the day.
I pause to hear cars passing on the busy street. The cold muffles the rumble of tires.
For a second I imagine all the windows open to the warmth of summer.
Love is not lost if it stirs in the heart, flowering in tears that holding back won’t do any good - either way.