Dark sea, sluggish
under a skim of salt ice.
Tide is holding still.
From submerged rocks
a chunk of ice floats up
and bounces on the surface.

Sometimes she wakes at night
with a moan, or a whimper.
What is it, I whisper.
Rituals: the daily sponge bath,
lavender oil, cushions.
Her limp hand dangles between us.
The doctor leaves
and she winks at me—now
the two of us can steal time.

We laugh at the diapers and bib.
She asks, do you mind?
I say I love what belongs with her.
In the wheel chair she slumps as we rattle
the red-brick sidewalk down to the river.
She is straining to see birds.
Later, she’d rather stay
in the shade by the door.