lifting the corner

of the calendar page —

the small space between

the great blue heron

easing back down to the lake —

all skill and splash

on its second bounce

reminding me to look up —

abundant moonlight

worn from pushing through

we stop to rest together —

late January

morning chickadees —

keeping count of something

and starting over

impervious 

to our disbelief —

death and the sun break through

my plan for the day

disappearing into fog —

clouds come down to stay

my mother’s hand

pressed against my forehead —

sick day memories

the sweet weight of years

whenever someone asks us

how long we have been

icy morning lake —

the last open water

busy with ducks

fading winter light —

every crack a place

for fighting the cold

crisp at the edges —

grandmother’s baking advice

here in the margin

longing for

the covered silence of snow —

global warming

first snowfall —

the sad sound of snowplows

scraping it aside

warm flannel sheets

and the scent of snow —

childhood winters

the curving slice

of a hawk cutting the day —

before and after

I try not to smile

but we both know my fingers

will be cold tonight

wiper blades squeaking

as the rain dwindles away —

umbrellas wilting

wind before the rain —

I tell myself

not to chase you

days that end early —

knowing what it is to hide,

I lift my chin

how you look at me —

light from the near-full moon

finding its way through clouds

baby pictures —

remembering his head’s warm curve

as the moon rises

thinking of you

now that it’s too late to call —

memory’s limits

winter morning —

every step complicated

by invisible ice

a small sick boy

sweating under the covers

longing for snow

epiphany —

we leave the tree up

itself a gift

paying our bills

writing the new year

until it feels real

a little more sun —

birds in the bare branches

singing away

slowly filling up

a tossed-aside trash can lid —

rain that should be snow

all purpose and shine

looking well-pleased with herself —

winter evening fox

steaming black eyed peas —

remembering how distant

this year once felt