Who Thinks of Me?

Loneliness comes in winter, always has.

Enveloped in the blackness of my leather chair I languish.

The warm wool carpet, red as blood, gathers in my toes like

native women folding harvest in their aprons.

Soft-lit lamps with linen shades in golden hues

perch on polished wooden tables.

This space, embracing like a mother's womb, offers up no secrets.

In …