20/365: Eyes Toward Spring


Sometimes all we have are creature comforts:
warm toast, tea, a cat on the lap.
Meaning has fled January.
Grey afternoon light strips this body down to the bones.
There are no pretty words for this.
It is as though I could walk off across the white prairie,
as Virginia Woolf into the river with rocks in her pockets,
exit through that cold, lonely door,
and let wind erosion pare down the excess.
For now, though, it is toast and tea and a cat on the lap
with eyes toward spring.

I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.