Fog thickened over the backyard

buttering shrubs and hedges

lathering corners and shadowing

the open space like a heavy shawl

over the body of the widow

like your shout over my soft

whisper like a chick’s call

in the frost-covered trees

vacant of leaves but potent still

trees perched next to one other

made of wood marionettes set to be

shaken and rejuvenated

by the April rays poised to be startled

by the moving will of the immovable