to walk again, each afternoon we drive
to the graveyard and the dying pond--
it's March in its relentlessness,
the ground frozen and floating ice melt,
gelid, every day you bend a bit
more, the knife piercing your ribs,
we walk the snow-crusted field
of slumped stones and snow hollows,
we keep our course, back to the ashen
asphalt where each day you count
your steps, farther, one boot
in front of the pother, while
over the ride of stiff milkweeds
and thistle we hear the nattering
of ducks swimming in open water,
patiently paddling, waiting for
the warmer weather, chasing down
the rival coots and buffleheads
turning their bills and burying them
between their wings, narcoleptic
floaters, impervious to the cold wind
shunting in from the west, and
when I take your mittened hand, love,
and lead you back to the car,
I hear you grunt and wheeze
with each step, stubborn, insulted
by the scalpel, fingers probing,
the snap of gristle and tissue,
the insult of steel and extraction,
the gasp for breath, it's so timely,
isn't it?, climbing back in the car
like arthritic dogs, grateful, we think,
for this cold snap, all the gray,
clouds of mallards flying down
from the west, each squadron
splashes down and slows to a quacking
drone, we close the windows and seal out
a few wraiths of cold breath, another
day, another few steps, another day
together, waiting for spring.
