465-467: The Seven Days of February: iii-v

This sleep is mute. More muffled than the rest,

more drowned by Solitude than other sleeps.

Or is it by that Solitude impressed—

a loud guest that, cacophony, repeats?

For Solitude is loudest when alone.

He whispers first, then shouts when it is dark,

and circles you when you dare to be prone,

to dare to sleep, to dare to disembark.

Thus, friendly portal to another day,

you’re marred not by my muteness, but my din.

Forgive me for letting Solitude stay—

he has a key, and I must let him in.

So let my ears grow mute, drowned in despair,

my senses dull, so I can’t hear him there.

~~~

Look out the window. Empty road out there.

A car may drive by, but nobody steers.

There’s snow, or snow-white walks, beneath blank air,

but only hollow footsteps meet your ears.

Inside your house, the same liminal space

stares back at you, lit by the windowed morn.

So back to your own bed you’ll surely pace—

no need to wake for a day so forlorn.

And curled beneath your blanket, now lukewarm,

you realize your sleep is most the same.

A window into further amorphorm,

whose liminality you can’t retain.

But better, much more, than the yon window

where tangible facades walk to and fro.

~~~

The feeling that somebody hasn’t left

the function, tho they had a clear invite,

but when you thought the house would be bereft

of them, they still cast shadows on the light.

They’ve all but left. You don’t exactly see

them sharing rooms or even words with you;

but evidence—evidentially—

suggests they still, your settings, rummage through.

And—ah!—a little snow left on the floor,

an unstressed need for gloves before you leave,

your jacket still hangs dustless by the door,

and still you check for drips from every eave.

Late winter is a lingering houseguest,

but better, far, than when she’s at her crest.