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Virginia Annette Jenkins
The opened letter now, a crumbled ball of paper, rocks gently to the steady flow of air. My heater does its best to warm the room. I wonder how long its warmth can last. My husband looks lost in the kitchen light. I jump from the sound of rattling windows, taking hit after hit from bossy winds. It is dusk in the winter of Tokyo and not a job in sight.
Next door, a stone Buddha
Snowflakes and incense climb the air
Falling circles of white