The Turn

The coat is on the hook behind the door.

I walked out in a t-shirt to get the mail.

The sky isn't that bruising gray anymore;

the light is thin and yellow and slightly frail.

The gutter is a river of melted slush and grit.

It’s carrying a red candy wrapper down the street.

I stood by the curb just to watch the middle of it

swirl into the sewer where the concrete edges meet.

When I went back inside, the house felt wrong.

The radiator was still huffing out its dry, dusty heat,

but the smell of wet mulch was coming on strong

through the screen door, heavy and bittersweet.

Winter isn't gone, it's just holding its breath.

The ice is finally tired of its own weight, I guess.