With windows open.
I realize how silent
Winter is.
No birdsong
Or squeals of children playing;
No thunder
At night while it is raining.
Funny how the house
Goes quiet and still;
So quiet I hear
Heat in the grills.
I used to write
Long into the night
It was the only time
Things were hushed…
The children asleep
Just the two of us.
Well, now we’re back
To where we began,
Writing is solitary
And often lonely;
Only the house
Settling down,
Appliances cycling
Off and on.
This psychic winter
Is too confining—
More deadly
Than lightning,
And equally
Frightening.