It starts small, like the tinkle of the cat’s collar.
It trembles as the flipped blinds show a row of light.
It rises with the stack of iced snow on the bird bath.
It trickles with water falling from the aquarium filter.
It gurgles with this morning’s coffee pot promise.
It flits with house finches waiting turns at the feeder.
It hugs me like my white cotton socks hug my ankles.
It spreads with the scent of rosemary as I water her.
It wiggles with twigs on the apple tree in the breeze.
It bobs and prances along with my neighbor walking
by with her dog.
It springs with a hundred things, pulsing with the sun:
my spirits, there with the sun on the snow, twirling
with quivering certainty. This death is done.