A black-tailed squirrel scurries up a tree,
its branches tremble, dropping bits of snow.
A chickadee unshaken, grips a limb
and surveys all below. The twilight dusk
soon lays itself on fields, against the ice.
These sliding doors reflect some ghosts—a tree,
a chair distorted to a phantom cat,
but just before the sun says its Goodnight.
Then whoosh, the apparitions morph to dark.
It’s like the outside sits inside with me
enclosed within this space I call my spot
with walls of glass so I can see outside,
come sleet or snow or gloom within my soul.
Today I see this mood as I leaf through
a catalogue of sunrooms, fantasy
to have a room with nature, just for me.