Sparkle-arkles from night snow
Twinkle under the wolf moon
While horsetails like angel hair
Creep tree to tree through a quaky maques
Toward raddled oak groves
And hope for buried mast,
Scraping while rabbits
Locomote saltatorially,
Pushing snow with nose plows,
We suss no vernal hints,
Only hope for louring skies
And warm-ups forfending
Deep-late snowfalls, what
Boob-tube dudes call “events.”
We are bound up in emotional
Buckthorn, neither here nor there,
Suspended like cowpokes and
Dead soldiers on daguerrotrypes.