white veins in frost almost language almost a voice the words collapse as the frozen rain pelts was something written there? she is certain the way one is certain of a dream already dissolving blink away the tears it becomes water blink again nothing lasts

the empty house fills with weather's dirge ice pellets counting time against the glass the chimney swallowing wind and moaning it back as a wounded animal where a voice used to return two weeks missing from these walls two weeks of earth closing over names said in past tense over memories shared in past tense over a casket the firewood diminished like breath in winter she picks a split dry pine log or the idea of one sets it into the flames or the memory of flames yellow light flickers or pretends to be light

she listens: to ice drumming to wind wailing is someone calling somewhere a voice repeats itself "any time" "for any reason" "call any time" time is not whole anymore it fractured it belongs elsewhere the phone waits like an unanswered question almost a language what shape does reaching out take when distance is not miles but excuses, hesitation and uncertainty?

she listens: to ice drumming to wind wailing someone calling or was it the dark empty room leaning inward? her hand lifts the phone or the habit of the phone the frost refuses meaning the glass keeps its silence the light dances with the shadow of the phone only the storm speaks only the fire consumes what remains