All Day the Whiteness of the Sky, Snow and the Whiteness of the Ground.

All day the world grows smaller, bit by bit.

You sleep late
and look through the window
for a long time.

Through the branches small heads of birds
peeking.

They want to steal a look, give or take a few
words for a poem.

The books have all gained weight and smell sweet.
You know that soon you won't be able to move your legs.

If only you could open
the window.
The air outside must be so cold, so fresh.