Right-minded so far today
after three months of crazy—
what relief can compare?
It’s too deep for joy. Too delicate.
Three, four hours now since
waking in the still bed,
waking slowly, the covers
not torn apart, the walls blank and holding.
No breakthroughs yet. But
how long can it last?
I’m half afraid to write these lines.
Even thinking them feels reckless.
Just now. Watch these specks
of snow, so tiny, so intermittent,
appear and disappear in the air,
jig this way and dance that, cold
fireflies, some finding their way
to the dark ground, where they melt.