I wonder—after we're pierced all over
with with the stupefying fingers
of proximate winter,
sterling bells ringing sharp as needles,
snow and ice fierce and extravagantly
silent as diamond
necklaces draping the blue neck napes
of the noblest pagan goddesses—
what on earth is there left
to feel?
Famous-sounding words like these
were never iterated
concerning noisy inchling birds in spring
or the stubbly bushes clinging
to the lurid face of autumn
and those stagnant summer
gutter puddles, all steeped burnt umber
with fermented dogwood leaves
would certainly make pretty unappealing
greeting card illustrations.
