An Early Snow and Winter Comes into Kilter
An early snow and winter comes into kilter.
On the tomato vine
I seeded too late in summer,
and forgot in its window box,
now no more than a gaunt thrust of green,
one stunted fruit hangs
fixed in the glazed
clutch of glass on sky
like a lizard in aspic. What to do with it?
So arrives the season of last remains.
A lone goose paddles
panicked circles in the town’s
ice-rimmed pond and will not trumpet into the jet
stream. A mouse
scrabbles around my pantry
since the yard went hard
There’s a cat in the road that doesn’t move.
But isn’t this the
old song and dance
of the diminished, of the less and less?
How tiring it’s become: the seasonal blues and whatnot.
Still, I am happy here:
day cycles into night,
a single thought in my head:
white snow whitens under moonlight.
Dear Reader, rise now
and come to my window:
the only one at this hour lit.
I live at the noble end of a poor street.
You’ll know it when you see it.
I have something for you.