print previewback DANNYE ROMINE POWELL
Snow
on the daffodils.
You wore your blue hat
to refill the bird feeder. Hulls
on the white ground. In time, the missing
are found. Sometimes not. I knew a woman
whose son, after years in an institution,
grew sane again. Hope expands and contracts,
like ice or hate. The house with no doors
becomes a tower of windows. Now I can see
the row of pear trees you planted in the dark,
your shovel arguing with earth. When the birds
returned this year, I loathed their easy migrations,
their pesky hunger. You left your hat
on the hall table. The feeder is empty. Come home. 
