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.