January

I am not vicious
I love to stare
when light hits the room across the street 
as if by an alien sun.
I like to think those people get the kind of sleep I crave 
as I move my pothos to the floor
or back to the sill. 
I hope for peace 
and finally heat 
but time hasn't yet come 
for me: thoughts fall like marbles 
and dry hands press air,
It is still only winter
and we wait in our corners,
I am a cold planet 
pruning and crying,
killing and dying.