Almost nothing that I see
here. Outside the window,
cedars, earth, lake.
The stones that are
the shore, white.
The cabin, palest yellow.

I look again. Inside,
a single apple.
A red and white umbrella.
I step out, startling
a black bird—
on his wing
a streak of red.

So like red to stay that hidden—
flash among the feathers,
blood under the skin.
Except this spring
when I miscarried.
And yesterday, when I drew
a knife across
my thumb
just to see some red again.