winter, like grief

is not just grey

Let us go out 
from this little blue room, 
into the cold air, 
into the dim light, 
into our fright,
into our despair.

Blue

The sky I see through the window is speckled with clouds that take turns passing in front of sun. When they move on, the sun returns its warm hand to my knee, a comfort on this frigid day.

The sky is a constant—even when I am burie…