You tell me—
it's never been colder,
that your malaise
and despair
are climbing higher
and higher, like
pillars of icy fire
consuming the bare tree trunks
in this small municipal park
where once, little children's
cleanhanded voices
would ricochet—like crickets
over that pungent grass
which now lies frozen
in absolute darkness,
obliterated by winter's
onslaught of avalanches.
But listen,
and look—here
and there, at least
there are still finches,
round as planets
and living
in the few stony bushes
which ring its perimeter—
notice
how warm!
they can manage
to keep, just by
cheering one another
on in their
piquant hopping—dare-
devilish and constantly
switching—from branch
to steely,
obdurate branch.
