Spiders dead at their posts
in white lace and macrame
draped between railings.
Grass steeped in crystal brittle,
crust-topped hedges, banks bearing
the white exhalation of the icy titan;
and yet a flat calm -
complete preservation.
Under this fiery sun
not a leaf dares to fall from grace,
not one in all my journeying
along clean roads
of the swept museum.
Dazzling remnants of carnival -
sequin-leaves
much more revealing
than attempting to cover
taut, dark limbs -
still as waxworks in a diorama.
My country clients come
to drag me in
away from their birch trees
who stand in pale make up
and diaphanous dresses,
exhibitionist adolescent party girls
the late morning-after,
mascara run,
frocks cutely crumpled.
Hazels have hung out catkins
to wave in winter's face, but
waive winter even they cannot.
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
