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It’s a slow Sunday in Hope. Laundry, naps, snuggles, banana bread, in that order. Lazy. Hp is working late and I am here, writing a poem out of this sleepy day. The snow has turned to slush and ice, and the driveway is treacherous. It was gray all day. There must be something poetic around here somewhere, but I’m struggling to find it. Feeling blank.

I’m going to try to write about it, again, and then wait for Hp to come home.


I am waiting for you to come up the driveway and pull me from the sky blank and gray. No moon here tonight, nothing bright at all. There’s nothing to be thought, nothing to be said, no stories to be told, just clothes to fold and dishes, and waiting until the dogs bark and you come through the door like the most tired miracle. It is the waiting that takes us to the same fold in time, you waiting to bomb up the drive, braving the stupid  ice, and me waiting for that sound in the yard, and the dogs.