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.