Snow crusted garden, last year’s coneflower
grey as old bones, q-tipped and stiff in the wind,
the neighborhood scoundrel cat passes through
the damp and molder in search of a wren to kill,
cowl mane the color of gravel and thaw,
the color of February, the color of the shadow
that followed me home, the one that still clings
to the soles of these worn out winter shoes.