The sky for days, open with this clear gray cold, an emotional cloak that slides down any gaping snap or sleeve, soft turn or tear, the skin exposed and vulnerable. It reminds me of the headlines that walk and ticker, write worry and wrinkled brow, like the sky unraveling, silver and wind.
I sit at the end of the day, my shoulders slow and sore, resting against the cool pale wall of my room, follow the narrow light along the snow, thin like chalk line, or patience. I reflect on the hate and clutter of the day, the months, the years, watch it pile as these winter storms, white thick and persistent. I sit and wait, with tongue completely still, while words and the world seem restless.