Dead winter trees pace the street
like expectant fathers,
red flashes of cardinals
bright as fire between the black branches.
I'm sorry, I say.
You nod, keep quiet.
There are no clean words for moments like this.
I am alive, fearfully present in my yellow sweater,
my gloved, ringless hand
seeking yours between the gray of December sky
and the hospital's automatic doors
humming shut at our backs.
Patches are all that is left of the year's first snowfall.
Already, the fury of the storm has been forgotten.
At thirty, miscarriage is a small coda
uncurling like a sleeping cat
across what will be the first false promise of tomorrow.