No place to sit
in this Siberian house
To write down a poem
lurking in my mind.
The living room is too
chilly and dark to defrost my hands;
the shady sunroom is
much too frigid, too.
Kitchen windows run from ceiling
To floor; sunlight streams in to warm
The bistro table.
I pull up a chair and lay
my hands on the table.
I begin to write the poem.
