The little house climbs from winter afraid
of its own weakness. The door, the cedar shakes.
The knot of leaves in the porch corner drowses
in the sunlight. The frost sizzles and rises.
It’s hard to find a word, a sentence, a handle
for the color of the dead grass. Gradually
in spasms of thaw, the grade of the continent
takes the snow and other omens. Squirrel nests
hang like brains in the trees, rocking, rocking.
Behind the house, daffodils. Right and reckless.