Winter light.

The dancer sleeps.

Through my fingers

And the air,

Mute, extends my chest.

More than the lack of change

Its expectation hurts.

Meanwhile

little words

Sprout, under

theatrical lights.

 

 

For some reason

I remember

Softly burning wood

While the storm

Uncynically persists,

Outside

And I am little again

Wondering who will

My husband be.