I seem to know you less today.
But because I know how to hold summer
in my hands like an ink bird,
I write what I do.
That your car had many dents.
That your house, a red door.
That only your hands trusted I was right.
With each inch of snow
the sound of your piano settles; melts.
Tires crush ice and the grass
by the pool waits for chlorine toes.