Cold crusts barren branches;
the mind of winter comes.
What I have known recedes,
as trees surrender leaves.
Little remains. Names I’ve sworn
never to forget, precious words,
coveted over a lifetime of dwelling
in books, fly out like shadows of birds.

The I drifts in the frigid hour;
ice crunches under foot,
and the sun which should be here
is not; gray of sky merges
with gray of mind, and the white
outside is not so much white
as devoid of color.

Cautious, I approach the house,
the door. One foot, torn between
coming and going, suspended
in a moment of indecision,
caught in a stark reel of déjà-vu’s.
I might shamble through rooms
cramped with remnants reaching back
generations, yet vacant.

I could turn away.

It is only today, and tomorrow,
the sun will surely rise
to the occasion, and I, opening
the door, may enter the house.