I slept for a year.
At that elevation there was no snow.
The winter wet and so cold,
but no snow.
Our wall calendars tossed,
yearly reviews buried
in a box the size of five loaves.
They might go off,
but I keep them.
Last week I alphabetized all the fiction
on my shelves.
What I haven’t read,
Oversized tomes lay like beached whales;
on their spines, gone aground.
My right hand ached when I was done.
Still I worked quickly—old pro.
When you get to the end of the alphabet
there I am, unbound.
In the morning still