Still life in dark times,
pollen collects on shoulders
of the sunflowers.

Under glass, under
the feel of January,
birds somewhere, flying.

The day starts foggy,
my mother’s fall lavender
fills up the whole room.

I planned for the bees,
butterflies, finches, inch worms—
I wanted them all.

The geraniums,
the plots of land and gardens—
only poems left.

The pleasures of home,
January sun comes in—
everything wakes up.

Closed-in August days,
falling asleep to rainstorms,
waking to dark skies.