Shadows

In the winter we barely leave
the ground level, the journey up
or down the stairs to the things
that bring us joy,
feels insurmountable.
Instead we drift by each other,
sometimes touching, sometimes not.
Both waiting for a time
when the sun is true,
when we are the versions
of ourselves we enjoy.
We have a mental fever
that is brought on from eating
too many gray skies and icicles.
We are shadows that pass
through each other without saying
excuse me or I’m sorry.
Last night you stood in the cold
just to get away from me.
Space, you said.
And I couldn’t help but think
that we had been living
like that for months.

Aleathia Drehmer is a poet, fiction writer, and artist living in a small valley in upstate NY. She spends most of her time gardening and herding cats, and taps out poems with dirty fingers that smell like tomatoes. Aleathia has an upcoming collection from Roadside Press due out summer of 2025. You can read about life and all the things in it at aleathiadrehmer.com