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A Winter Day
by Mary Jo Balistreri
Morning, soft and silent with snow, moves slow
like a procession. The chant of Irish monks
intensifies the quiet.
A single sparse line.
The white austerity of a heart numbed with cold.
A woman stands at the window
mesmerized by the storm's erasure, then turns
to travel the walls of the gray and white bedroom.
She wonders why she ever chose such non-descript
colors. She can't tell if she's in or out.
A notebook lies on the dresser, another blank
white page. Reproach. Writing is the last thing
she wants to do, but it is all she can do. She writes
what she sees walking across the vast emptiness.
A chunk of ice cracks somewhere down below.