A girl ate ices
in the red summer. Bees
buzzed among the hydrangea,

heavy as plums.
Summer widened
its lens.

You would not believe
how happy she was;
her mother pulled her

through the pool till her hair
went soft. Below,
cracks spread in the vinyl

where her mother's long legs
scissored; above, wet faces
in the sun smiled . . .

The home, adrift in sun,
was square and clean
with wine and apple pie;

at dusk, lamps were lit,
Vs of geese swept past,
fresh sheets shivered

on the laundry line,
and as the nights grew crisp
our souls unfolded.

Then winter arrived.
The parents bent over the daughter
tucked in her bed . . . .

Creaking under the cold,
the old black walnut's roots
spread beneath the snow.

When spring came, the home
had tilted into the tree's
long, cool shadow. Nothing

was the same again.