Before the cold broke this weak winter,
enough sun on anonymous deciduous trees
to lift hope into my nose
caught me mid step, ambivalent.
Cold lifting was so hard a shift in plan
that I grew madder in the bright parking lot,
and so broke into the garage to warm
at the weak electric baseboard.
I lifted drop cloths like rough disguise
away from weak ladder back chairs,
each old and irredeemable two inch
rib of wood broken under dust’s weight.
Tomorrow, should day break cold,
I'll wander in the warming dawn
about the reservoir, where a white cloud
of green apple blossom lifts into the hills.