To Set the Record Straight

by Jeanne Lohmann

What year was it just past mid-winter you came, breaking into my precarious, chronic ease, pushing aside conformities in this new arrangement? Since then the air is charged with light, stones drift to the river, the story does not end. The bed remembers, tells the careful way you folded the flannel sheets, the blue wool blanket, plumped the pillows back to the sofa. But what year was it just past midwinter?