though this winter may never end,
the snow with its patches of stiff, brown grass

7 starlings at the feeder they are just
passing through    like you, always

3 exits away from the place
where your heart will stop    & stay—

you think maybe under
the ground  the sound of ash, the heft        the way
your father left & his before        all that unfinished

business you’re determined not to have.

The book in my hand says
I only need to look around to see—
                                    stay in this small space, though

my window remains a frame
for end    the cold,    my heart for loss.

The single cloud in all its lonely blue.