The house was cold; I didn’t have much time.
I always picked the chair within the draft.
It punctuated reverie like rhyme.
I cried and cried and cried until I laughed.
The snow had drifted heavy on the west,
And flickered in the wind beneath the lamp.
I felt that I had failed some crucial test.
Although my clothes un-froze, they still felt damp.
The distant voice of love cried distant words,
And touched my broken soul without effect.
It might have been that I was reassured,
Or simply marked the absence of neglect.
And still today the house is bitter cold;
No longer middle-aged, I’m now quite old.