Waking Alone

A cold trumpet morning wakes

me from dizzying sleep, climbing

slowly up into the fir outside

my window. Frost cracks

the panes of glass separating me

and the world. Inside

my head I scratch lines and erase

the dust from blackboarded walls

in furious pensiveness. Yellowing

white dust attacks my fingertips

and the front of my pantlegs,

drying the life from inside out.

Drying the life I remember from days

past and almost-forgotten. I see her

face washing away in the rain,

a child's drawing on the steps up

to the front door. I stretch my hand

toward the window and touch the cold

glass, hoping to melt away the pain

that remembering exhales.

Still, she used to say, the wind

will never blow you away. A leaf

drifting from branch to earth, browning

along the margins. Centrally yellow,

fading. Into the soft morning

I blink and let go.