30 Nov Back 40: From Bed
The wind is howling. But also mewling.
Ornate wicker feelings rip loose
and tear off down valley.
Cabin: half buried in snow.
Bed springs: if I were dead these would still creak.
Blankets: could use another.
A bruised light through lace curtains,
maybe a baby’s finger of bourbon in the bottle.
Something small’s just run
across me, diagonally,
across chest and stopped
on stomach, panting. Thinking?
Kneading his or her paws a bit
on the topmost, pilly, filthy, beware-
of-adjectives blanket. Ripped
loose wicker feelings travel
back now, up valley.