too cold for digging

it has been snowing as long as i can remember which maybe says more
about me than it does about the weather. the big oak paws at my window,
almost indistinguishable from the scratching of small warm things
that have made a home of my walls. i am glad something
has made a home of it. the world is in greyscale which we think is a certain
way 
of beautiful. sometimes limited visibility is a blessing. another blessing:
at the cemetery two blocks from the house that used to be ours,
the ground 
is too cold for digging, the metal shovel sticks to skin.
it is no use, anyway – here, there is nothing to bury. that’s the thing
about this kind of losing: 
the mourning begins and ends
with a breathing body. it’s just that now i can’t hear
the breath or sound of skin 
touching itself or your alarm
in the morning. two thousand miles of land 
will do that. you are not
a creature made for cold and that is all this midwestern state has ever
given you. maybe it is all i have ever given you. at breakfast i look at my life
without you the way i know you see everything: through a jar of honey,
the light 
through an orange slice. you are in love with the hour
before sunset and that 
i can’t compete with. i am waiting to love
whatever day ends the snow.

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