Love. Three Foxes
I loved her from the moment she cried about her father. I saw her, as if glimpsing a living mystery in the belly of a clock.
In that instant, longing. A sharp hot stink of hope, unbidden as the pigeon eating our
breakfast on the warming flagstones, the marguerites still dipping their heads in shade.
A husband away. For days we walked in the snow, wordless in deep banked silence. A vixen crossed our path, a silent spy slipping into the treeline. A robin blazed bright on a bare branch, offering benediction as we crackled with fire.
I offered her a forest, planted to the far horizon. Something more portable, she said: a secret garden, a window box.
Spring has brought hail, drumming the greenhouse. The bonzai is a crisp stick.
I can see a pheasant on the lawn, his leg is broken, hanging. Nearby is a fox.