My neighbor’s pickup truck,
filled with a winter’s load of garbage,
is a fixed point from my front step.
Scarecrow men from Halloween past
rest in tipsy poses by the door.
One waves as I collect my Sunday paper.
You, in the disintegrating overalls,
can you hear my voice?
Is the snow on your head
a benediction or a sorrow?
Dead leaves rustle the trees.
The sky is painted gray
as the spring-ready birds cry
wake up, wake up.
(from Dream of the Antique Dealer's Daughter, Word Poetry, 2013)