poem: woman alone

she is standing at the door, waiting.

there is snow powdering down and filling his bootprints;

it has been a long time.

she puts her hands against her thighs, under

her skirts. she watches the silent great sway

of the earth. the sun is

a single yellow breast,

pressed hot against the sky.

she puts her back

to the doorknob, the silver ball of it

digging into her skin,

through her dress.