With winter under way and night creeping in at 4:30 in the afternoon (in New York) I have a lot of inside time at my desk. Sitting. Sitting. Sitting. So I tried this poetry exercise over many weeks.

From my kitchen window I see the hydrangea balls of winter—dry, dusty, brittle, crunchy. They’ve shrunk to little fists.
My old Nike sneakers squeak loudly on the red oak floor under my feet.