Folding Winter

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,

Earth relents

and Winter folds its losing hand,

the ice along the side of the roads sliding like cards

into the frigid black water.


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