I paw at the dangling
cloth she has thrown
around her neck
and watch her slide
on another layer of skin
before she steps outside.
And from the window sill
I see her dig
a path down
to the darker dirt
moving the now interrupted whiteness
into piles.
This is what they do
when the ground swells
overnight and swallows
up everything on it.
The new dirt burns her cheeks
and when she comes inside
there are tears still dripping
from her eyes and chin.
The white earth clings
to her thick layers
and hangs from her hair.
She says she has shoveled.
And from her heavy breath
and slow motion movements
I know this means "defeat".
