Rain and ice fall on the House incessantly—for an eternity today.
The inhabitants dream of chartreuse leaves unfurling from the tree-skeleton limbs at the windows, emeralds far beneath the snow, love again.
Dust settles on material things they no longer need: the untuned piano with yellow-teeth keys, a pile of warped vinyl records, the paperback books with print too small to read.
The dog, who barks only in his sleep, sleeping; chasing acrobatic squirrels or scared bunnies, stuck still in the post-winter grass.
Garden beds await sun and hands in the dream that wraps around yesterday’s confusion, sleep’s down-feather blankets sheathing.
The ghosts of the house receding for respite from the unsettling conversations about entropy.
They accompany the owl in the backyard towering pines that sway in March winds.
Sentences might be constructed to lure them back across the empty brick patio.
We’re better now, we tell them.
The old woman will walk.
Snowdrops, primrose, crocuses, and daffodils preen under orange and yellow bird feeders.