She remembers the storm
that picked up the neighbor’s boy
as he stepped to the still wonder
of his shaken world,
front yard with his toes against
snow, in his hair the nesting of petals,
in the caves of his ear.
The door ran wild
on its hinges.
She taps on her fingers
those lost things they counted:
mailbox, the soup
in the pantry, electricity.
All the branches of the tulip tree
were found offshore,
and the neighbor’s boy, too,
below the window
frozen as the eyes of Michelangelo’s
Moses on gold and the fire
before he melted to the mountain—
anchored by ankle
to the tomb.