We are all the summer leaves
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.