The ironwork bends into its vined ornament
as the porch collapses like a box of rain,
water fills the candle jars black with ash.
In the weeds and dirt I found a heavy bell
that called my mother home from her playing,
droplets on the rust ran like dried blood.
The day lies grey on flowering cherry trees,
petals lost to wind will blanket the ground,
sunlight come weld me to this feather bed.
Inside these warming arms like ringing voices,
I will return to a birth like simply waking,
sky spires extend from the water of our eyes.