the lines are blurred

the lines
are blurred. as is the creek
through
the window,
the sheers, the trees
now bare with
winters breath,
the row of houses on
the ridge
are sealed
with quiet voices.
smoke
lingers and pulls
out from chimneys
on the tilt of grey tiled roofs.
there is nothing on the list
of things
to do,
but I can tell you
that at times like this,
I miss
and love you.