Morning of buttered toast; of coffee, sweetened, with milk. Out of the window, snow-spruces step from their cobwebs. Flurry of chickadees, feeding then gone. A single cardinal stipples an empty branch – one maple leaf lifted back. I turn my blessings like photographs into the light; over my shoulder the god of Not-Yet looks on: Not-yet-dead, not-yet-lost, not-yet-taken. Not-yet-shattered, not-yet-sectioned, not-yet-strewn. Ample litany, sparing nothing I hate or love, not-yet-silenced, not-yet-fractured, not-yet- Not-yet-not. I move my ear a little closer to that humming figure, I ask him only to stay.

I promise to plant kisses like seeds on your body, so in time you can grow to love yourself as I love you.

Dear bitter heart,I think it’s time you move out. I put your clothes in a bag on the porch. I’m sorry if it rains, but maybe the water will wash clean everything we said and didn’t mean.