This cusp where a hand could be lent.

Winter berries invariably play host to the worst elements.
I get lonely thinking of a few of them, sole and

     shriveled, by the basement door.


It is something to endure the worst elements,
And to be so gifted in death,

     predicting the future.

Buen provecho.

After lunch our family exited by the long,
Whispering table in the window.

Knives down, forks,
No chewing, no replenishment--

But an untoward whirr
Low in the warm air-something like a slow-moving fog,

Purple and dirty.

Leigh explained that, especially in the small towns
Of Mexico,

Where it was polite, people whose eyes met
Said, "Buen provecho."

It means:  Hey, dig in.  But more broadly, and
More spiritually,

It means, It's yours now--and I have seen you, and we share this.
Rescued together from less, but separated, in a kind of fenced in sky.

No later than now, all these things I love--and they're gone.

I had spent a part of the morning thinking of a Gustav Klimt
Picture, the fur-collared model standing black against the

Somber gold of the evening snow.

I couldn't get that snow out of my head--
How ephemeral and fixed it fell,

As if bleating clouds, leaping the fence,
Each being counted on its drowsy way.