Knock or none, that woman hears a knocking,
runs to the door, ready for a friend—
only frost in moonlight and the dog
she cannot stand.
She believes that God is in the trees,
perched like a bird, waiting for the crumbs
she scatters on
the snow for definite robins.
Love to her is mystery and pain.
Her children died
and winter puts a creaking in the house
that makes her sing and grin.
Her garden works
because, early on the first warm day
while others wait the official end of winter
her hoe is ringing rocks away.
Deaf or not, that woman hears me knocking,
runs to the door, ready for a friend—
only rain and darkness and a man
she’d love again.