End-of-the-year closet cleaning so I can fit in the new stuff.  Even when the sorting is done, I turn into a Japanese subway pusher so I can close the door. Can’t remember who gave me the lotus leaf floating bathtub plug – strange present, but it will probably amuse the cat now that her personal climbing structure, the Christmas tree, has been relegated to the compost heap.  I’m debating whether to first sweep the resinous pine needles that have turned my living room floor into forest cover or risk a paper avalanche locating the missing receipt for the snowman sweater vest I will never wear.  Instead, I make a note to remind my stepmother that a gift card can save time and money.  There are the ornaments and lights that need to be stored back in the upper altitudes of the garage although, in order to do that, I’ll have to locate the ladder.  The indoor herb growing machine, still in its box, brings visions of disappointment and guilt.  Even if the plants survive, the electricity use will cancel out any savings at the grocery store.  Before anything else can be done, I should to take out the trash in the desperate hope that I will succeed in my impersonation of a garbage compactor.  The bags tug my hands like a pair of impatient two-year-olds.

Sky stretches out, a broad gauge rail.  Someone has a fire going.  Pinon. The air is rare.  As the snow comes, cautiously at first, then with abandon, I tip my head back and stick out my tongue.