a few lines of boredom, in a windstorm

The wind breaks on the house like waves on the sand. Aggressively rubbing its shoulders against the bricks like it’s trying to make its way through a crowd. The pine tree branches shimmy like the frame of a Civil War era skirt rustled in a waltz. Inside is still. The heater has retired. The lights are disobedient. The miniature green mimes have fled their black stages. We are waiting.

The blinds make sliced sunshine on the white wall.

These sundressed walls and silent daytime shadows watch and wait each day. They wait for my baby to grow, wait for that future transformation, the one that happens when you’re not looking, that makes everything different from now, that makes now only an idea, no different than the unmade future.