Nicki Nicki

You tell me long

ago the wind had

rung your doorbell.

No human

could have fled so

spright & nimble.

And that winter

sends its greeting

via the window’s

condensation. You say

you were alone, that

someone came and drew

a smiley face, which morphed

on its own accord—

a mouth that drooped and

runnels from the eyes

which soaked your hands.

It’s quite clear

the elements are our ghosts,

unveiling their every thought

through what’s unseen—

a barometric

pressure’s sudden

plunge,

a searing from the sun

that reds your flesh,

and the duvet

of fallen snow

on what is dead—

the down of pallid

feather, chasing the grey

away.

You'll visit your

mother’s grave in

early March, will wipe the

woolly white that

fogs her name,

as if she never passed,

as if she’s out there

someplace

in the nimbus,

when the rain is knocking

frenetically on your roof,

pleading for you to

welcome it inside—

let it warm itself

by the fire, comfort you in

the diaphany of its arms.

Andreas Gripp

January 9, 2026

Photo: Alina Ivochkina