Salvage

She is looking for light in February
the way women seek antiques at a flea market,
pearls among plastic Cracker Jack toys.

She is looking in window wells and trash cans,
behind fences and under layers of leaves,
feeling for bounty in abandoned grocery bags.

She is looking in glass reflections
and the stiff forsythia branches
that in winter resemble bars on a cage.

Pandora sits in the dormant garden,
pool choked with weeds and slush.
She waits by the silent chimes.

She is holding out for the halcyon,
inspiration as clear as cold air,
fish as thick as bees in a dream.

She hears a crow on the wire,
sees treasures in a feather, a raveling scarf,
and she keeps a close eye on her salvage,
knows she will need to save more.