By Jeanne Dakota

Reaching through shadows from a large elm tree, the bright sunlight spotlights my neighbor's upstairs window. The white window pane glows against dark blue asphalt tile siding. I don't usually notice this window from my home across the street. Most days it fades into the woods around it.

The whimsical white lace curtains open to a sliver of darkness within, and I wonder:

Does a woman awake in a warm bed, greeting her lover under the covers, their breaths commingled in the early morning chill, their hearts warm enough to compensate?

Or does she lay bereft of soulful heat, and gaze at the sunshine as I do, wishing it was enough to motivate her to fill another day's emptiness, another blank slate awaiting either her actions or her apathy?

Between the two houses, the road is cleared from yesterday's snow. As it has dried the road, so too might the sun evaporate my gloom, if I were to walk in it.

But inertia claims my body. No lover's glee propels me out into a world where no one wonders how I arose from bed this cold winter's day or whether I got up at all.

January 1, 2001