there is mercy
in our relation to the sky,
the waking each day
to a coldness that comes so
and finds the ways in.
(we have grown old.
the snow is falling on our skin)
Annnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
Morning at the Window
by T.S. Eliot
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.