Home from the North

only from the nesting hollow 
            of our bed 
will I say how cold it’s been 
            so cold 
deer feed in backyards along 
            the foothills 
like dark, small-hooved cattle. 

the bus winds through a canyon 
            of snow 
cattails spring from white banks 
            in tandem 
far dusky trees align their tips 
            in a long brush 
five black and white crows pulse 
            into white sky. 

the close crooked branches interweave 
            cross and weave 
again outside my window love 
            cross and weave 
a basket in the making, an intricate 
            slow enfolding.