Kristin Roedell

Frost is still in the scissors
the trees cast. At one end of the park
a roof of corrugated steel
sits on concrete pillars;
lovers shelter from spring rain.
My husband nods as we go by;

we’re shy and solitary
except with each other.
I aim at the sky when I throw the ball;
It makes a steep arc,
and for a moment

it’s part of a flock of gulls.
Sometimes it lands in scotch broom,
or deep in blackberry bushes
and is lost.

Things go missing here.
On the muddy path my daughter
said she was leaving home;
by the wasp’s nest
my husband cried.

Our collie smells our losses,
circling around them.
Everywhere there is scratching
as dogs finds lost things.

A terrier holds divorce in his mouth
A poodle digs up death;
layer after layer of blue winter
is uncovered.