New England Winter
Afternoon approaches, shadows cast by aspen in the fields.
A forsythia, its leaves fallen, feels winter.
The warbler's wailing annuls, flown south, and withered branches
break to become wreathes, their bark like
leather. Later, the little rooster's crow
resounds, his angst rarely resolved by the mother hen.
Half-bred horses with heads and necks
that know nobility now stand
slack, asleep. The solstice is black.
Their blue breaths fall, brittle clouds,
collections of condensation, carried on the wind
whistling and whining, while the first
flakes fall. The farmer warms
water from his well, wishing sleepy-time tea
would tame the tiger in his throat.
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