Friday, February 18, 2011

Four Celsius

Bole-mate of gray rabbits,
red maple root fretter:
under the ground runs Jack o' the Green.
He told me the tips of twigs
and whistled me a steam air
over frozen dark moss.

He danced a single jig of snow
letting go, a treble jig for ice flow.
I huddled and huffed blue belief,
I hunkered yes, shuddered
and shivered please, Jack,
scuttle frost, smuggle me Spring.

Thursday, February 10, 2011