Out of the sky the snowflakes whirl, bringing to my ears and eyes their childlike blows. Children I have known or should father sleep in my bones. I hear their cries. They would awake not for a night and brief breeding, but to feed on their father. No crooked leg stirs in the snow.
Nothing wishes to grow.
My hand is now your glove. The screen door bangs in the unbelievable brightness of the low white sun. Dew on the ridged gray banister on the grass and stones. A dented pan sits on the grill propped across stones. The smell of bacon goes through the sharp air like gauze.