Branches like fingers trace dark patterns
across the bright walls of that room,
I wonder at their boldness, sheer guts
the old woman appearing at the window,
her white winter breasts staring the world
in the eye, the man with restless feathers for hair
digging rutabagas in the rain.
When cracked ice on garage rooftops
means it’s cold outside, I turn up the heat,
watch water drops slide slowly down
the warm side of the window,
try to turn them into words, marvelling
at that room, brightly open
nectarine, as if to say
There is no death here or
what are you waiting for?
