for Cathy

Snow is falling, snagging its points
on the frayed surfaces. There is lightning
over Lake Ontario, Erie. In the great
central cities, debt accumulates along the baseboards
like hair. Many things were good
while they lasted. The long dance halls
of neighbourhoods under the trees,
the qualified fellow-feeling no less genuine
for it. West are silent frozen fields and wheels
of wind. In the north frost is measured
in vertical feet, and you sleep sitting because it hurts
less. It is not winter for long. In April
shall the tax collector flower forth and language
upend its papers looking for an entry adequate
to the sliced smell of budding
poplars. The sausage man will contrive
once more to block the sidewalk with his truck,
and though it's illegal to idle one's engine
for more than three minutes, every one of us will idle
like hell. After all that's happened. We're all
that's left. In fall, the Arctic tern will fly
12,500 miles to Antarctica as it did every year
you were alive. It navigates by the sun and stars.
It tracks the earth's magnetic fields
sensitively as a compass needle and lives
on what it finds. I don't understand it either.