I realize how silent
Winter was.
No birds chirping
Or children playing;
No thunder
At night when it's raining.
But it’s funny how the house
Goes still
When children are gone
And weather chill.
I used to write
Long into nights
It was the only time
Things were quiet…
The two of us,
A chiming clock,
Only the sound of air
In ducts.
Well, now we’re back
To where we began,
I wait until late
And the house asleep;
Writing is solitary
And often lonely
No thunder or lightning,
Birdsong or singing,
Only the house settling down,
Appliances cycling off and on.
But this psychic winter
Is more confining—
Cold and desolate
And often frightening.
