The sun came out this morning
to melt winter from the rooftops
and breed icicles on the eaves.
Even the hackberries, huddled
in their shelterbelt, exhausted
by nymphs and August heat,
still manage to raise their brooms
and ten thousand tiny nipples, galled
by their invisible marauders.
Eye closed, feeling the hidden thorns in this poem.
ReplyDeleteA shrike waits offstage, berry juice in her wings.
Pinned down.