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although left for months my house is still standing here on terra firma branches broken by snow fallen into the dead garden trace cuneiform letters if legible they would spell out a record of absence of blinding blizzard afternoons of evenings wrapped in white of the minute happenings of hibernating, unmoving nights during that time decay has visited raccoons have scattered the wood pile once again the hallway light has burned out the cracks in the plaster have grown wide and for some reason, a picture hangs at an awkward angle these small bits of ruin are not the earthquake’s fault the house has grown old and I as well there, in the room where the furniture is shut away more shadow dances than light look carefully, perhaps it is just the cold but these tired house walls seem to tremble under their nervous weight if these minute tremors are not for me they are for nothing and for nobody