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,
will wash away the foundation
that June built with such bluster.
Victory is certain
so we snuggle