I am at the window eating oranges sent from a friend of my mother-in-law’s from Florida: the only place now in our country without some fringe of snow,
and they are sweet fire.
I suck the juice off my fingers, sticky and grateful as fat white snowflakes fall again toward the earth beyond the glass.
I am still not tired of watching.
Still not tired of the way the world is now, like a line drawing in graphite, all gesture, all movement, all white on gray on white;
and so I watch until I feel things settle within like snow, softly
I watch, till the blue jays arrive in the lilac bush for the oily seeds I put out at the feeder and my soul drinks up their color: blue on gray on blue,
and the sweet round fire of the orange,
and I am sated.