Thinking about the Beginning of Winter at the End of Summer
In winter the flowers are censored,
hidden frozen underground.
The soil is the living skin of the earth
and for months at a time
it scabs white over.
Blissed to undergo
the sky’s tumult
of snow and sleet,
the nails and screws
of our tiny ranch style home
discipline it feverishly,
with a sadist’s aplomb.
Staring out a foggy window,
it is only at the beginning of winter
that a beautiful old woman suddenly realizes
that the only thing she can remember
about the birth of her 7 lovely daughters
is the fact that once they were
irrevocably born and red and slimy
it quickly became apparent
that they were pregnant also.
And so it is only at the end of summer
one irrevocably intuits
flowers are nature’s alarm clocks,
everywhere ringing, ringing clearly in season.
There’s a sickness in me, I’m sure.
I’m in love with you,
it’s dark outside,
and winter will be arriving
very very soon.