In our small Swiss village winter brings a whiteness stretching to the horizon. A slowing down as farms rest. Days become colder, afternoon walks shorter and closer to home. A retreat to indoor pursuits. Hobbies and reading, visits with friends.
at the ringing of a bell
snow on the red mat
The Upstairs Window
It was barely dawn and I was deep in a deck chair when my niece decided to draw a pimpernel then changed her mind. She drew a house instead. It had a door and some windows. She gave one window a pair of red curtains like those I had when I was living with Josh. It was an upstairs window and when I pressed my face to the pane, I saw inside. My baby was asleep in her crib. She had not died. I was thirty-five when I began to see things like this. I wish my niece had drawn a pimpernel.
as the sun describes the hills: