I had almost forgotten everything. Mostly the smell,
sour and metallic, like the body. Sometimes in winter
the world slightly reeks. But now a sweetness
rising from stiff ground. The dry earth going damp.
All the seeds from summer’s bolting, the lamb’s ears
that shot up on furry stems, pocked with purple,
leaning out, will germinate now. I will dig
them out of the gravel path until winter.
Again, the world strikes me as a gift. I should know better,
but doesn’t it seem the cusp of things? The neighbor’s house
looks a stage set, sky a gray scrim, garage door hung
with yellow flood light, its triangle dividing dim from lit.