A sister dies,

and in morning

the robin atop a bare-limbed tree sings,

and sings,

bold rusty breast full toward sunrise.

Frost clings to windows,

the fuzzy round-leafed plant beside the door,

and plans.

Nothing moves.

Arranging a future, an impossibility,

a flourish at the end of a dance

not being danced.

Coffee, a book, clean water,

a quiet night,

follow the small blessings.

They are, really, thousands of rocky miles

from small,

tall as the crown of a tree attracting music

to the cold, restful,

fading dark.