Her book of golden days, blue hours,
and rose (uncounted) minutes.
Rushes peeled in freezing winter
with fingers first blue as ice,
then black, dawn bringing no warmth.
Step out from between the small houses,
or leave the snow-swallowed forest.
In any open space the air is a howl of sheer sorrow.
And later, over her blue hours,
in her book of golden days,
with the pot settling from boil to simmer,
it is much easier to laugh or shrug away
these latest accounts of ghosts,
moving beside one, hands outstretched.