For Margaret


When the sunrise spread


across the snow 

and painted the window

in almost spring


you fingered the stories looped

round your neck,

strung up like 


or teeth, depending


each moment a threshold

that marked her 


in the swing of a door,

or a sunlit floor,

or the wind of a hand

grown cold

in your own.


But today in the hemlocks

you look up


for another taste of that sweet light

and know instead


not her eyes, vacant,

but the current of a soul blowing 

past your own pane,

lifting the branches toward 

the bright sanctuary 

of movement


where at the glassy edge of 


you, in a whirl of

dawning endings,


and rise to meet it,

crossing on a breath 

that no frame

can contain.


Are we not 

each of us a window,

thrown open?

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