By the radiator, woolly layers laid out to dry.
On the windowsill, flowers. White ones.
In strollers, toddler cheeks greased to shining with salve, or else red and ruddy and in need of it.
Between the nape of your neck and the thick of your scarf, a rat’s nest.
Bedside, a new novel and a resolve to finish it before February.
In the shower, exfoliants. (Two kinds).
On the floor, pine needles.
En route, a calendar.
On the streets, salt.
In the fridge, a vegetable pot pie.
On fence posts, missing mittens.
On the couch, a slipcover retucked and ready for toddler acrobatics.
In a bag, sneakers and leggings and a lock for the locker.
In process, a scarf.
On stoops, cardboard boxes marked FREE.
Inside, the smell of peppermint and eucalyptus and lavender.