cold comfort

It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon

Emily Dickinson.

a heavy blanket or two between
her and October mornings
fog curtaining windows
pressed against panes
she defies its walleyed glare
the demanding clock
daywear strewn across a chair

stays there
while spiders criss-cross
chimney breast to grate, corralling
devilish despair

Covered this poem with just 44 words for Merrill's quadrille prompt: Blanket