You slip outside, leave
the commotion behind.
Your pantlegs brush your thighs,
it sounds like a downhill skier.
It’s not that you thrive on neglect,
just that you prefer your own
company to anyone’s.
You walk just long enough for roses
to bloom in your cheeks,
for all thought to be swept away
in a current of refreshment
before turning back as the first
snowflakes begin to fall.
You feel like them. You feel
like something ephemeral,
remarkable and ordinary
in the receding saffron glow.
The porch glides up
to greet you. A moment’s
pause, a hand on the doorlatch,
and you’re back.
