It is warm enough to drag
lawn chairs from the garage,
prop our feet on the patio rail
above the melted snow.
Sparrows fly in for pieces
of her sandwich that drop.
She gives them sitcom names—
Ricky, watch out for peanut butter,
she says, it will stick your beak,
and Lucy, watch out for Ricky,
it is spring. But the next day rain
and cold and the day after that
more cold, then snow.
February ends with us
behind the patio door,
meals on plates with silverware.
The sparrows keep to the trees
and brush. The edges of the lawn chairs
smooth under the snow.
She carries them inside,
brushes the snow onto our carpet,
faces them to the television.
We push our good sofa
against the back wall
and finish out the winter this way.