The deer in the snow turned away
from my flashlight and kettle
to let me fight with the ice alone.
I was thinking of you then,
of your sleeping head,
of your maskless mouth.
I used to think your heart
was like an old waterway
always locking and filling
up, but it’s not just one thing
—it could be this kettle.
It could be the steam
in the dark. The light
bouncing around the branches
at midnight. Mine might be an ancient
furnace. The bunny tracks running
up from the bramble to the
catalpa. That tree will bloom
in June. White clouds tacked on a
knotty frame. Broad leaves with no
teeth or lobes. I’ll remember then,
the bunnies living in its roots,
the furnace resting beyond
the green crawl-space doors, and I’ll
reach for your radiant hand before supper
because that’s when we say grace.