1. ice points the lawn with mirrors
blinking as i step past in my sandals
i grip the recycling taste the smell of frost
the poppy stems which spread as weeds
still erect resplendent—the hose chokes
with slush as i rinse the remaining carrots
which i pull from the earth’s glittering gums

2. my mother reclines on the family room couch
the velour one we never use in the room
which stays vacant until recently when the yelling
cranked off like a creaking faucet and a distance 
has spread words apart—a forest where spruce 
and fir have been thinned
with no plans of replanting

3. with a child and now a baby i have no time to yank
the dandelion and red clover from between strawberries
onions or peas so i roll black fabric over the growth
gauging holes where the wanted vegetables will be allowed 
to grow—i hold the dark sheets down with rocks
some rusted pins—at intervals peppermint and chamomile 
emerge from the edges and the torn places

4. my son flips one twisted stretch of muscle
on the changing table even with the purple-red lion
wet in his gums he whirls like an otter in kelp
i grip his legs pull the swollen diaper off with a swift
motion ripping one side off—he stops—startled
i don’t think i hurt him but i am ashamed
that i have exerted too much against his fragile will

5. first frost and the roses will be cut
shears snap through wiry stems and sparse burgundy leaves
some slice cleanly as thin acquaintances some resist the blade
i cannot keep any flowers even the newly opened 
because they will die out here and this is the season for death—
but i hold two bruise-red buds curled in utero carry them 
into the room where we eat—where we continue to live