The morning is a lace lesson, breath winds
up and over the bone bobbin of the bank.
We tramp to the big house, our work done:
frost stitches a lawn, sticks stars on potholes
I can’t step on for imagining days crack.
If ladies would roll in snow the day they marry
we’d have less to cart. And the pond wouldn’t stare,
a monocle over spaces and strands in my fingers,
already so big, so big for fine work.
Our hands are snowflakes melting too fast.
Mother drags on, a bellyful of pin small fingertips.
There’s a stitch in my side and, a moment,
I want to cry at bird footprints on a stone wall,
careless, letter like. I can’t read what they say.
Here, we can stop for a while, consider pips
in an apple, bubbles in our milk bottle, air on glass
washes our hands. We peer into the box at our veil.