Anticipation of spring is like the flopsy fingers
left to mischief,
fantasy that folds our time.
This cut weather.
We rest on pillows amidst a flurry of bird wars – a
channel-billed cuckoo, that itinerant other
is hunting for a magpies’ ruin their
eggs supplanted by size & rancour. But
we people belong, don’t we? Turning poems. Immobility
& its dainty flowers,
wealthy in sequester.
For me, hurry would be surrender,
smokehouse resistance
will wash away the foundation
that June built with such bluster.
Victory is certain
so we snuggle
in tinder.