The yew seems to melt, bleeding
its sturdy browns and greens
into the snow as the window
steams and runs. The sky since noon
has lowered until earth and sky
meet in the same shade
of mottled
light and gray.

But the kitchen brims with spices,
and the hard little apples surrender
their shapes into our hands. We fill
jars and jars and place them
on the shelves. This was a fall
of many apples, and they will bless
loaves of bread
not yet baked

for at least a year or two. This
is the essence of hope, stubborn,
stirred to gold with cinnamon and clove,
but in the end, foolish and
not enough. I can still taste your mouth
when I chew a slab of bread, warm and smothered
in your last
winter here.