For every blossom fallen, thousands more return. The spring moist wind blows in through the open window. Though I sleep, the coolness makes my skin tingle. My daughter sleeps alone in her room. I stand in the doorway and watch her breathe. My favorite song is the one without words, my favorite poem, the one devoid of music. Our old Jeep is made of steel, glass, rubber, and wood. I am surprised because it seems to have a heart. Day after day, cold. When will winter end? The bearded iris blooms in the snow. When I was a child a picture of Jesus hung above my bed. My father put it there after he’d abandoned the church.