sunday morning

glum, under a spell
of unknown
origin, she steps out
onto her porch
and kicks the ice
off the edges
of the stoop.
she sweeps acorns
and needles to
the snowy grass.
she pours a bag of
salt where her
feet will step.
she whistles for
the dog to come in.
a white winter sun
slips a cold light
between grey trees.
she is happy
in her unhappiness,
filled with no one.