A Winter's Poem

Rolling down

By mid-January, I long for an open door,
clear empty light,
the rustle of my kitchen curtain
and the green breeze off the porch.

The drift of dust curling past my bedroom rug
and the dregs of tea in a forgotten cup
recall me to myself, sleepless nights now
fending off the weight of warmth

in rooms overstuffed with pillows or
overrun with blankets, piles of books
tempting me into other worlds.
Instead, I dream the lopsided pull

down a grassy hill at sunset,
five years old and sticky with juice.
There's a kind of grace in forgetting
or starting at the beginning

before storms riddled the dark,
before I knew what storm was
or sleep
or mercy.

(from Dream of the Antique Dealer's Daughter by Robin Smith-Johnson)