two locks latched means
everyone’s still tucked inside
buried deep, closed up,
except a crack in my upstairs window
balancing the dusty heat with outside air
where the first late snow drowns
the black twisted stalks of
peas, strawberries, tomatoes
strangled fruits clawing up from a pale grave
stewing in their dark plastic pots since June.
even once softly tended peppers
dangle rotting from their vine.