Winter is twisting inside and out of its skin, the raw underbelly of scrub oak pricking through open pores of dirt.
Clouds are tormented into swollen limbs of light. Severed, they float slowly, slowly, in a pool of blue.
Why can’t I swallow, or eat, or sleep? Your chandelier is laughing at the icy poverty of melting snow, at the agate bead of birds stitched to exposed ground, its soggy nape.
Light slides off the mountains into filling furrows of shadow, which will overcome in minutes.
This day, once owned by the living, slips, their patterns now disappearing too, as spring is willing to swallow these months of strife, of deer hoofing frantically for lavender tucked deep in comas of snow,
Of moose stretching hooves up into arching galaxies of sleeping cottonwood,
Of you, like a pearl in enamel, the soft pink sheath that we sealed with a mortician’s twist, his hands skilled at levers of this sort.