The house breathes quietly to the rhythm of soft paws on carpeted stairs, the slow click of needles and rustle of turned pages; as rain slowly trickles down the window panes.
Today I have draped rebellious joints in the softest of fabrics, as they rage against the cold damp air; causing slips, trips and loss of grace. I used to run, not fast; but sure footed on sprung treadmill to the rhythm of music set on shuffle. Now I stride, then slow apace as hips and knees rebel and seize like a faulty engine in a clapped out car.
The daffodils are blooming, yet still I hibernate , curled on comfy cushions; waiting for storms and gales to cease, and the sun to shine its thin pale light through slatted blinds once more.