First Death in Winter

New snow’s made our yard a white slate,
Winter written out 

in shorthand.

Here, deft paws notarized
a path to the trees,

our weighted bouquet of New Year’s balloons
wind-dragged across. 

I turn my attention back to the table
where you sometimes sat.

Week-old white tulips sag in the vase.

I carry them to the sink

spent petals

falling to the floor
in an unbroken line of snow prints.

Solstice Literary Magazine April 2013