written By
I think I spot a clot of blood from my kitchen
window. It moves
inside the branches of the forsythia. A male
cardinal puffed up, silent
just as winter plans its evacuation. Buds
fall off the rhododendron,
a small lick of pink remains. Squall lines
form in unstable atmospheric
conditions. My hands deep in soapy
water. Deep in retirement.
The sky bleeds gray. A robin digs its throat
into the ground, lifts up
from a sudden squall by the empty picnic
table, condensation of water vapor.
My husband stands at the edge of our yard.
Soaking. Severed limbs
of the oak lie, survivors of this last great
brawl of the season.
He speaks to me through the open
window. These are the long
sunsets, the ache in the body. The shift
of winter to spring.
