Under glass, under
the feel of January,
birds somewhere, flying.

The day starts foggy,
my mother’s fall lavender
fills up the whole room.

I planned for the bees,
butterflies, finches, inch worms—
I wanted them all.

The geraniums,
the plots of land and gardens—
only poems left.

The pleasures of home,
January sun comes in—
everything wakes up.

Closed-in August days,
falling asleep to rainstorms,
waking to dark skies.