Just what
sort of sagging scenario
have you now
to cling to, bloated and hemorrhaging
empire of winter?
Face facts.
All over—one of these
braver
and more broad-shouldered mornings,
the gaunt-
cornered and dry men
and women of this country
will stand,
stretch and—doubtless
rubbing out each of their two starving eye sockets—begin
to step—slowly out
past
your raggedy borders;
grimacing towards the impetuous, raw and
sheer ugly
newness of the weather,
but—at least
no longer so unsure
of daring to trundle over
such harrowing
and utterly
oppressive frozen lots as yours—and gradually growing
ever more certain
only of the completely independent idea
that this stiff and harsh and
still-cold
air will carry all-the-better—melodies;
new anthems worth exploring—of spindly,
impetuous, still-
faint young voices
out there
somewhere—even now—covertly
lusting
to perch and start
pecking-
away
at the knots
of your lean white woods.
