ponder

 

All day before the window, as if at sea, the skies blend into earth as a calligraphy of trees: white to white. A quiet desire for more words, more space separating myself from others, for the year to end—though knowing the dates mean nothing, our sad methods of measuring—nothing. Yet the snow makes it seem possible, everything farther away. And the books I open turn into one another, word to word, til there is no longer any distinction. Just wind and cold and white. The lightness of words at one’s disposal. Later, I will leave the books and sip my coffee at the steps, as if one could step outside of words, years, outside of the spaces stirring in us since our tired beginnings.