cold sighs
of front yards
each strangled with wires
and tinsel
and lights,
and the street curb,
all caked with
December's take on dirt,
a few robins—great rakes
in the long days
gone by,
now gaunt,
pale, and desperately
pointed and sticky—
are darting ever faster
back and forth
between the pines
and squawking nonstop
about the good times
come next Easter.
