She lies on the couch, legs crossed,
eyes staring into the ceiling. A day comes
when she’ll have to do something: go out
and shuffle through the snow, fall
on the ground, stand up and run,
smell the bushes for a sign of spring
or dog urine, break twigs between her fingers.
She could watch squirrels chase
one another up and down some tree.
Or she could wait and see.
The ceiling is low today. Clouds drift
through the window, grackles pick daintily
the last berries from frozen vines.
She can forgive winter
for its long oddity, its tired body
of a shrunken old woman. Vines spring
through her couch. A day comes when she must
do something, or simply lie there and bloom.
First published in Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment, winter 2019