Tree and gray sky, bone and bark
arms bent, peeling away the sodden
winter branches. My eyes are lines
on the dark road, shadow geese angled
home above the margin of aspen.
A light at my door is crooked from wind,
yet the bare-bulb sun is lengthening
toward brighter hours. And it is trying
to snow, in a way that makes it hard
to remember raspberries at all.
In the empty flowerpots, I understand
the world is turning over slowly,
imagining what color to be next.