Snow layered itself
over the already dead,

those clumps of tomato
plants I’d neglected

from the summer lay
crumpled under drifts,

their bones muscled
with cold near the shed.

I spoke your name,
and it spun there,

our little ghost,
spreading open

its arms until they
were bare limbs

of trees, my neighbor’s
broken fence, this

bright distance
between us.