THE HOUSE
Her basement is filled with snow
She is standing on her stairs, twisted
around the railing, squinting at packed
whiteness. One window streams light
enough to sparkle. She creaks up
the spiderweb stairs, walks
across the snow beneath her floorboards
She needs to check the attic
Has her roof split along the edges
unfurled its tinny petals? Is she
standing at the mercy of the sky
Glint Literary Journal 