for years we were jars,

quiet as ferns and collecting 

snow,

sun-refracted and complacent on the windowsill.

the samoyeds nosed us, smiling, and

we measured life with a wooden ruler,

the number tables worn off the back.

i am full of lemons,

pert and squinting, edgy as tree-rings,

a stray going home in the rain.

i fill trains with my metrology,

collect their words 

like all the jackets on 

a cold night.