Today you clipped long, thin verticals
from the espaliered pear and apple, laid them straight
in three bundles tied with twine.
I dug the vegetable beds under,
turning the heavy soil until it fell black
and loose from the spading fork.
I love this emptiness.
Bare branches making a net for the wind.
The garden tucked under a cover of straw.
We pull dry logs from the woodpile,
carry them in to the stove.
A finch lights on the fence post,
then disappears into the white sky.
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