They’re attached to our home, a coat
hook on the left when you walk in,
tags for Stop & Shop, T.J. Maxx,
Hallmark gifts, plastic prayer flags
tattered by variable winds, passing
years peeling back their adhesive.

Stage IV’s storm foreshadowed
the groundhog’s warning, predicted
a mix of insidious conditions,
the prospect of an equinox
delayed by fatal disease, a hopeful
prognosis teased by a change

in season. Purple crocus advanced
with your cancer. A raw morning
Saint Patrick’s Day Mass. Parade
of unread intentions collecting
in heaps. Escaping today’s cold,
I’m spring-cleaning, rummaging

for room to breathe, needed space,
tossing out envelopes, junk mail
forwarding your ghost, thoughts
on your ashes, if I ever get rid of
this place. Casting, trenching,
raking—sand in the hourglass

never asked you for plans. Now,
it’s on me to sort through our past,
keepsakes from a lasting winter
hanging about gaps in jambs,
like the chill in our house, your keys’
jangling when the door slams.