All of it: children whistling ryegrass,
my husband rubbing my back
in his sleep. Consider rubbish the sun
climbing the eye of Delicate Arch,
the scent of popped-open coffee.
Leave it behind, pleads the scourge-
scarred Paul. Lay it down and rise.
But even loss is hard to count as loss.
This morning frost has leathered
the nasturtium, but I cannot endure
ripping the haloes of leaves from their pot.
The astilbe, once a lavender mist
in my window, burns toward winter,
seed heads trembling like the hands
of an old charismatic. Maybe in heaven
I will remember the March I buried
those bare roots around the base of the oak
and brooded about some sin or another
holding me fast in the mud, spring
the only unseen I could bear to believe.