Reading

How comforting characters might be-
the heroine now waking
to the subtle invasion of snow

fallen on everything she sees
as she rises, filling the heavy black
kettle, feeling the sudden

cold beneath her feet. How easy-
moving into her room, entirely in
to this story, tracing her steps

through the strangely similar pattern
of every day, each beginning
with a promise of the new.

Though most of her days and hours
resemble the others, in the pages
I keep turning (over or out, depending),

a word, a flurry, a simple cup
seems edged in silver, set
apart from this world, shining

with the finish we love in film.
This is why I love a life of fiction.
This is why some days I cannot read.