an old woman passes me carefully.
all my grandmothers live alone
contentedly. they miss their men,
but not in bed, not in the kitchen,
not deep in their work. if i outlive you
will i want nothing? winter always provides
a next thing to do: hurry home.
get warm. i turn my hands in steam
from the coffee. the perfect cold
without snow has undone a layer
of good farmland. how can we breathe
this air made visible by rising dust?
/ 'learning the elements' from the book salt air by sharon bryan
