Winter follows on, not as it was,
never as that shade of red, maple leaves
before they let go. An intrusion of sun-matted grays.
We know something comes afterward, rising.
Some ragged flowers, blizzardy, effusive,
yellow jonquils, their scent a surprise,
sweeping toward spring.

Expect the clock to tick, the hand to move
across the quilt some great aunt made, its gaudy
colored pieces, flannel and nubbin, patched brocade,
fabrics driven out by the ’esters and rayons. On
acute hearing, the sound of the cat’s step,
climbing the stair, and the disturbance of dust
when she passes from one altitude to another.