Poem for Monday, February 25, 2013

In February

The morning appears through naked branches
and leaves

The evening
I trudge through, sloshing in cold-wet buckskin

There is no bitter taste in between;
There are the ghosts of pines,
Their whispers sapped with swill:

                   We heard the stars knock boots, they say
                   We buried Icarus in the Ozarks, they say
                   We kept our secrets

Like good little trees should.