Clear and cold. I peeled and cut an onion yesterday,
and, despite all the washing, my fingers still smell.
A bird, through the window, wishes me well.
Her eye, sent by heaven, from heaven,
through heaven, arrives in heaven, all to be still.
A frozen field, where once were walls.
the everyday business of ghosts.
A stray thread on a coat.
An unexplained feeling of hope.
A boundless sea, in need of my very small boat.
And everything else a grave never holds.
As if, almost, the bird says, Oh!