Brown beer bottle clots
spot Winter’s arterial ditches;
He coughs up litter –
golden bow from a Christmas wreath,
a decaying newspaper fat with ads.
A dead deer is suspended in the cold water
at the edge of the forest, glassy eyed –
a Russian Tsar, preserved;
Winter clings to the brown land, a lover scorned, shameless.
He will do anything, his snowy arms
lace the trunks of the trees like ragged tutus –
the trees look away in the wind.
Though April came late, unapologetic,
wooing the frozen dirt with wild tales of green, of crocuses,
of robins pulling fat worms like a sewing machine in slow reverse,
and Winter folds its losing hand,
the ice along the side of the roads sliding like cards
into the frigid black water.