Another Morning Poem

With the sun a spot of yellow through

the frosted window, I awoke not

quite thrilled by the strangeness,

like the day after a move. Just

hours ago, the last hollow brick

wall of grief collapsed, that levy

of sadness burst. No telling

how—unseen erosion, the hidden drip

of chaos toward a tipping point,

the wind that carries the weight

of the straw that breaks everything

eventually? And I won’t tell what

it was about. You'd only say

so little? or that again?

I’ll just tell you I stood again, showered,

got dressed. The kettle whistled. Breakfast

tea steeped in something different, toast spread

with jam. I walked outside and into something alive.

The sun a spot of yellow through the frosted winter sky.

Breath refusing to ghost, glasses unfogged.

I was struck by the first real snow

of January making good

on a threat the sky held

over us for weeks—flakes broken,

melted, and frozen back in

on themselves, hard

so they sounded when they hit.

It's true, and like so much that is

true, almost completely meaningless.