The house creaks under foot like
old leather, like two sheets of
plastic rubbed together. Or a bad
violin. Who is that running up
and down stairs? Perhaps it is
someone newly saved from death.
Someone whose losses outweigh
everything. The only thing to do is
get up, push open the window, and
inhale whatever March throws
at you. Take in years of wind.
Perhaps you can sniff the horse
across the way, the squirrel ascending
the tree to raid the bird feeder, the
flowers about to spring. Anyone
could look for you, etched in white
flesh, paler than winter bones.