=Something, not much though=

This afternoon
fresh from a shower
wrapped in a robe
I sat by the window
& the tears on my face
were full of eyes
that saw nothing.
A better poet than me,
someone like Linda Pastan, for instance,
would have spotted 
some swift-passing image
of winter hope 
in the stick-figure scenery
like when she wrote of the small leaves
clicking in their coffins
of ice, but I saw nothing,
really just plain nothing,
saw right through it all, 
not even my breath
frozen on the glass
would cooperate.
This is no way 
to end a poem, I know it.
You want something.
Anything. Like men
returning from a foggy war
want something to make the leg lost 
worthwhile. Okay then.
The cat was off somewhere in another room.
That's not much, I agree,
but it's the best I've got.
I found some sliver of hope in it.
I hope you do, too.
You're going to have to live with it
in the end, after all,
we all are,
whatever it is.