Notes of Winter

- The sugar maple are repentant this year,
lowing in the gloaming,
throaty in the wet winter air.
Full, flowing, their bark painful, tender,
like a dairy herd ignored.

~o~

- The corners look like licorice snow cones,
sooty with exhaust, dented from buck teethed boots.
I never miss this side of winter,
when snow treads look like rotted potatoes
and the wind feels like a thousand bees.

~o~

- I detest the slant of mid-winter’s light.
It would taste like instant milk in a week old dirty glass.
Everything is too tepid, the light too harsh,
the colors like thrice rinsed tea.

~o~

- Winter’s wind is full of wailing and omen
instead of Summer’s high blusters or siren sultry heat.
It cuts like birdshot off your cheeks.
it pules through each crevice and crease,
whimpering like a fallen priest.