Not So Much Your Suicide

Winter grit gets kicked inside and
glitters at the open door's edge
where my shadow passes your death,

its truth how I hold the turned handle,
strip off this thin denim
and flinching, narrowed hood,

face unfurling before the rowed
pots of soaking cut begonias and
the estimable days they'll have.

I am dismayed more by belligerent
Spring, clinging first to the fresh earth,
where I'll fight for my next foot steps,

my weight of lessening consequence.