Sunny Day in Winter

Beneath the bare dogwood,
Helleborus pokes its green head
above the scattered leaves

I neglected to rake this fall,
an autumn that witnessed my own
steady fall into neglect.

Closer to the house, a stone
fairy sits atop the bones
of my beloved Two-Socks

who in her timidity taught
me tolerance. When I removed
her calico body from the street,

neck broken, tiny trickle
of blood from her mouth,
I cradled and kissed the

tender face that would never
greet me another morning
of my life. In the backyard,

beyond the leaves
and statue, stands the Weeping
Cherry, a gift from my friends

to plant in my father’s
memory. It is bare now
but no less lovely in its

nakedness. Oh yes, winter
has come and settled in my bones
and blood. I amaze myself

with the capacity I carry
inside to remember the dead
and yet still harbor the tenacity

to look without fear, to walk
among the ruins and scattered
memories, to wander this world

a hungry and incomplete animal.