There are some things I know for sure:
sunlight on bricks, bricks burnt pink
and orange, sunlight on the floor
bleaching wood, dead moths on the sill,
wings divided to crystal wings,
month of dust on the glass,
cracked window left hanging.
“There are always problems” my father says.
His cigarette smoke curls around the phone.
“We lost another tree last week. The oak.
Come and help me cut it up.”
Evergreens blaze in columns,
leaves piled by a fence hold out,
and winter apples wrapped in paper
fill the cellar of my father’s house.
