I lay awake
And listen to the storm of my life
The trees of the past are scraping against the house
And the wild wind feels painful
Tortured
Hurt
It's rained for thirty days

My writing mothers me the way nothing can
or ever has or ever will
Unless it's myself

I talk to the shadow of the lamp in my room
The shadow of the lamp lit
only by a little moonlight
The moonlight is small like me

My
grief
is
bewildering

I'm left with nothing but rain
and
snails to look out for on the front steps.