before the last
was melted –
robins in the snow
silence took the place
of sweet surprise
before the month-old babies
were tumbled
from their arms –
before the dream
became the best
there was

of verses
spun to linen
– as lines retraced
by heart
poems found
in pieces
never rhymed
late nights in the kitchen
habits pressed
between –
was more than we forgot
the morning come

marmalade
and I won’t tell
how the story started –
it seems the wind
has taken
all I know
branches bent
against the roof –
sometimes
I hear you calling
poems fill the shadows
as robins melt
in snow

. . .