The apartment smelled like old dust and wool

The apartment smelled like old dust and wool

so I walked until the shadows went flat.

The air is soft, a deceptive pull

that makes you forget where you were at.

By the curb, the last of the winter's wall

is a pile of gray slush and cigarette butts.

It’s a slow surrender, a quiet fall

from the frozen grip of the driveway ruts.

Across the street, a neighbor’s hand

tugs at a hose with a stubborn kink.

The ice inside won't understand

it’s time to move, it’s time to drink.

We aren't ready for the sun to be kind.

We’ve spent too long with our collars turned high.

It’s hard to leave the shivering behind

just because there’s a hole in the sky.