Through the gauze blind of the inset kitchen window I see the soft warm light of a lamp, left on all night, beside a footpath in the frosted garden
I had woken early, read Mary Oliver’s poem Wild Geese, not that I was lonely, almost the opposite; yes quite a bit more than at one
The peace of the plainsong I hope will stay with you, as I wobble, play with the place I choose most often to wander
I wasn’t in need of a response, or was I? Do I no longer contact myself, clearly, internally, with my needs; did I ever? Do any of us really, truly
One spoke of the lovely poem. One spoke of walking in the snow, from returning her sister to her home, late in the evening
The bed was cold, the room was cold, the house was cold, the sleep was cold; I was not warmed by the cold; my warmth came, from the togetherness of their words
