The property line melts into forest, its late winter browns Like a beast’s pelt; oaks hunched like sleeping bear; Beech and birch extend into ugly candid possum hair, And elms and maples muster into a passel of woodchuck. The air waited on first signs of spring, curling up like smoke Through your lips – petals thin as pencils, yet capable of shape And form; they’re forced into a smile by a late March sleep Being much too late for April showers. The ice is glassed Over, bonding yesterday afternoon’s puddles into a crust, The gouged march of cattle habitual for bleak pasture; The frozen prints are filmy, each a black and white fish-eyed fissure That gazes up from feathery hooks to ultimate grey; outside We’ve come to test the meadows and taste the weather, greyed As tombs. Embraced by down and wool, we try hard to ignore The vestiges of conversational winter, snow that quipped before In patches defers now to gelid mud. The quiet of the fire In the parlor stove lives on – but questions ha...
