What lights and shadows
this old farmhouse makes
even in winter

deep gashes of black
and bright
slash the oak floor

one square of sun
warms my right foot, the hound
is poured into a corner

bathed in light.
Somewhere fiddleheads
are overgrown

unfolding in the sun
and small white faces of feverfew
turn to open;

here, fat blackberries in milk glass
glow. Now that you
are not coming home

I lean back in my chair and rest,
my hands tired
from basting

the front, the backing,
and the batting
all together.

Our dog looks up as the chair
creaks, he hasn’t heard
the sounds of rest in many months.