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A Winter Day
by Mary Jo Balistreri

Morning, soft and silent with snow, moves like a funeral
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 stormís erasure, then turns
to travel the walls of the gray and white bedroom.
She wonders why she ever chose such non-descript
colors. She canít tell if sheís 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.


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