Day 7 noticing the body 

my brain says “Poem!”
but words are stubborn,
hiding while fingers mindlessly
scratch an ankle too dry
from winter’s arid air.
my focus becomes small,
this patch of skin, one ankle.
if I had a microscope, I might
watch layer by layer as dryness
flaked into the air. A circle
of dust motes twirl and sway
above the grate in the floor
borne on the hot, dry breath
of furnace two floors below.
outside the moment, ears attune
to the low hum of humidifier
two rooms away, as it spills moisture
that never reaches thirsty skin.
Outside January’s warm enough
to melt the snow that fell three days ago,
sun-sharp and bright as a June day and
warm, if you stand out of the wind.