Through my cracked window,
a breeze sweeps my skin,
gently cathartic.
My skeletal thoughts linger.
The remnants of the year
lie in a pile of dust
in the corner, uncermonious
and untidy.

It was a year of yearning-that
that rattling ache in my spirit.
The slippery days could not be grasped.
I watch them disentegrate as
a warm light leaps
playfully onto the floor.

But the growing shadows around me
are stiffly resolute-the darkness of
the inevitable night ahead threatens
the placid warmth.
I am bombarded.
The future is looming, and
all I care to do in this moment
is drown in light.

I don't want to think about any of it,
in this moment,
in my bedroom,
in the late afternoon light,
so I stare at the pile of
dust in the corner, and let
the warm light wash over me
like a baptism.