Winter Sundays when the sun

came through the window low and slant

laying upon the floor a trapezoid

of light and warmth on which I sat,

funny papers spread before me,

and I, content with all the world.

~

The world of six or seven or eight, 

following the warmth across the room

until it found a wall to climb,

and sunny warmth was no more.

How many winter Sundays? Fewer

than I suppose, enough to harbor memories.