Mother, the yard’s a-glitter with frost,
and fleecy strips of cloud reflect
off the sheen of an iced-over puddle.
All’s white on white, save for the raven
flash of a wing, creasing the air as it
passes over. I rinse the cups and plates,
I put the folded linens away. Your grand-
child cranks out notes from a tiny music
box: they sound like water drops, perfect
in their brief, round plinking. I think
about the rings you used to wear on your
fingers— the cold cut of diamond chips
inlaid in gold, raised crown of the ruby
pushing up from its leathered chair.
We’ve learned to hold the tastes of fruit
in our mouths, mulled and spiced for winter.
I’m growing out my hair again: it pushes
past my nape, falls in a circle about my
shoulders. At night, in sleep, my right
hand cups my cheek; from habit I turn
toward the window. Behind night’s
lowering net, miles and miles of quiet.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.