a February storm and an engine swap,
exhaust fumes and the music the old woman
next door once sang as a girl
hovering in the static, between power lines
and cable television, biscuits and a bag
of groceries from the dollar store.
I wake up to the sound of my child
on the monitor. There by the water
we dipped ourselves and fed the birds.
Rain turned snow. Snow turned sleet.
Last night’s story melting in the morning
sun, a rocking chair and I read
the little girl something about wolves
and bonnets, another encyclopedia
of color. Maybe it’s like waking up
after a heart transplant, not the organ proper,
but the heart as a wingéd thing,
the soul, you understand, the dead spider
in the toilet bowl what we do
on a daily basis to hold tighter
to what we do. There by the water
we were born again. One day
the old woman next door
will take off in song with the cardinals.
The crows on the chain link.
An ominous thing sitting in a tree.
The roads turn to glass and the trees
shake like crystals. The wind chimes
ease everything back to sleep.