Across The Room
windowed between bookcase and bookcase,
winter is curled around a red-capped yellow fire
plug. Smoke-white sky, rust leaves, and needles,
the gray veins that are bare oaks. And that one
squat, alien, and bullet-shaped note. A cough
and loud wet snuffle during morning prayers.
An intensely human thing, out there in the cold,
and here in the silence between shelved books.
nudged by the Twiglets