the croton dying

in my bedroom

window sprouts new

pink-veined leaves. After

winter, a man tells me

I look nice, that I

don’t reveal too much.

After winter and death

in the family, my love

tells me they’ve burned

his grandmother’s

diaries. After winter,

bubbles in a porch

rosé tingle like light

through glass. After

winter, my shepherd

sheds her second

body. After winter,

I take pride in the gold

dollop of a tomato

swelling on my patio.

After winter, my blue

veins tell me the sun’s

absence, and yet

the community pool

rattles with so many

children I cry

in my car. After winter,

the burdock and poke

-weed have turned

Jurassic. After winter,

my cat wants nothing

but shade. After winter,

as I drive around town

I note the volume

of couples lounging

in Adirondacks

on their front lawns,

wrinkles and lemonade

glistening. After winter,

I bend, like my cactus,

toward the light—

in fact, I bow.