snow days, mouth of spring

Finding it hard to care about
how sparks ring in the alley,
the ashes in the centrifuge, or
what sweat coats the moon.
Cold enough to dress too warmly,
warm enough to deceive, then
the damp gets in and you cough all month.
Find me a cure for good timing. Anyway,
it’s all always coming to an end.
Finding what folds out of the newspaper
unreal: a cache of short-lived lies.
We are silver, not trampled sod.
Lancets cross the stream, lifting their skirts.
Stags burst from the earth, snort steam,
and paw at our preconceptions. The old gods
rise up and demand their taxes.
An end to winter’s road.