Winter shares a door with forgetting.
Handfuls of cold slip just through.
I try to tell my mother goodbye
just in case.
Suffering articulates
a stone well.
But where does illness end?
Or does it form one corner with love.
Orange snow in the mornings
pours a new shape for rising.
A room opens and closes
in the cold shape of a walnut.
I cannot see how many lamps.
But it goes
as far as wishing.
A fox asleep in the painting.
A jug by the bed.
How much of life is taken up
by the vast body of death.
One day, everything is time
and I walk through a knife
cutting the mound in half.
Eventually, I am no longer
so afraid.
I have draped a new dream
over the entrance.