The Winter After Your Death

The long bands of mellow light
across the snow
narrow slowly.
The sun closes her golden fan
and nothing is left but black and white –
the quick steam of my breath, the dead
accurate shapes of the weeds, still, as if
pressed into an album.
Deep in my body my green heart
turns, and thinks of you. Deep in the
pond, under the thick trap
door of ice, the water moves,
the carp hangs like a sun, its scarlet
heart visible in its side.

Sharon Olds

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