Thursday, February 5, 2015


Hungry and 
mindless snow-

gray cloud cover—having been rather 
exactingly expunged

earlier this morning 
by a dazzling 
subzero sun,

his mind begins
to apprehend 

a princely fat 
finch must be singing.

somewhere habitual
out here amid the endless
winter quagmire—

praise hymns;
perhaps to the round glory 
of such a brightness 

that blazes
independent of its temperature,

or perhaps 
to the only thing—a few sweet twigs 
and their hard 

frozen berries—
all he needs, or has ever needed,
or will ever—

to feed
the bulk of his 
merry, non-particular genius.