I am quite philosophical
in the winter.
Nothing to do.
Following the festivals of Christmas,
makeshift holidays for dead presidents,
and then sit still and wait for spring.
Rearrange spoons on the table,
bottle time for later living,
and say outrageous things to myself.
Pretending to know what’s what,
and chasing people away.
Once I did that.
I say things to myself,
and wonder where the snowdrops are.
The little bells of winter.
The only flower,
blossoming in the cold.
I think I will fall into my solecism,
redesign the seasons,
declare a moratorium on February,
and stop loathing
a perfectly beautiful time.
can I see so deeply in the woods.