Fridge Pulse

The room is dark but breathes with sound,

a steady hum that wraps around.

From cold glass door, a soft green light,

pulses slow in the thick of night.

Mechanical, alive, it drones,

a steady beat beneath the bones.

The blackout left me with its voice,

a constant thrum, a hard cold choice.

I lie awake to hear it sing,

a song of frost and endless spring.

In that hum I find my place,

a whispered drone, a living space.