Are you recalling the bulbs we squandered
between the roots of the chokeberry bed
and the tuberous claws of the alder?
Between you and me, is this how we bury our dead?

Alive, and prodigal, a country between
A death-wish rescinded and supplanted,
like long-suffering stars withdrawn but seen.
Snow shriven, unconsecrated, and one-day recanted?

Through the window, snow sketches a still life
An open-handed shovel, cars buried
Alive. Bodies only in spirit. In flight,
Each breath that’s taken from us, each ferried,

Father, to this sea motionless and bright,
Is a clearing, an earth uncovering light.