I fold myself into Nordic socks
because the patterns speak to me
and I’m cold in an empty house.
Nobody bothered to tell me
I’d wake up with no face
or that the sky would fail to rouse me
because sadness weighs more than clouds.
I cook the meat and stir the stale air.
Tomorrow may be different
but only as far as the sun’s reach
because I’m in a constant spin.
I wonder if the flowers will return.