I move through days
Of limned frost
Of silent rain
Piecing moments of coherence
Through the whispered voice
And a sharpened pencil
Making my sense
By leaving my mark
Each poem
A little-used corner
Of life—
Mine, or another’s—
And as I do so,
I see myself
on the periphery,
a veil between us.
Perhaps it must be so
for the whispered voice
to come in advance of life’s to-do list
and for me to incline my head enough to hear it.