I am in an arid season
where nothing germinates,
and nothing will grow.
Is this a hibernation or a drought?
Nothing will connect,
and nothing cleaves to nothing.
I sit in this armchair, one third awake,
and follow old day-dreams down blind alleys
beside the fire, beneath the cat's warm weight.
Outside the house, in the uncertain light,
wind frets and fidgets in the wet gutters.
Rain clatters, cold, against the window glass.