​The thawing ground bounces back
     beneath my feet, a foolish echo of the
way you used to walk. 

Outside the magnolia trees mock 
    the gown I wore when I
overpaid The Doctor to rob
me of uncertainty. 

Everything is pink and green 
and alive and wet. 
 
It's the dead, he says, reaching out
   from the tulip bed.

I sit on a dry patch of grass.
And the earth dampens my jeans
like only the earth can.