Friday, February 1, 2019


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—
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.