The frost has mapped the window pane

The frost has mapped the window pane

and trapped a yellow leaf.

The morning comes with a quiet stain

of winter's sudden grief.

My heels hit the grit of the floor,

a shock of frozen pine.

I should have left my shoes by the door

but nothing here is mine—

not the cold or the way the light

refuses to warm the rug.

I’m just standing in the gray of the night

waiting for the kettle’s chug.