by Kerrin McCadden

In a handful of seasons,
water and cold and dirt

get under the paint and it falls
from our houses like old bark.

The river sends smaller
and smaller floes of ice

downstream, crocus making
their way up. Rocks are inside

my shoes by the time I’m home.
Five winters now I run my hands

under your shirts, start at the top
to split the buttons from their catches

and end the cold. My hands make a set
of wings under the placket.

Moth or hawk,
I don’t know which I am.