Not so much the cold, but the wind
pressing against glass, announcing his passing
glances, lifting wood smoke over snow-fields of soft prints
broken through ice.
These are clues, you say, as we sweep the steps of powdery air
and fallen sky. Without looking up, I know a hawk by its shadow.
The sound of a chainsaw in the distance without seeing the blade.
The shape of your hands covered in work gloves—clues, as we sweep
last night’s silence from our doorstep. The stones uncovered,
veined with time, the sun bright outside your leaning, his
name, here, finding me.

 

—Sharon Rousseau is a poet, writer and photographer living in New York City and the Hudson Valley. A 2014 New York Times Poet’s Pick for NYC Haiku, she also posts regularly at sharonrousseau.com.