Winter

 I hold little more than a thin love
   for winter.
Why must the beauty of snowfall  
   be accompanied by
   painful, cracked lips? 

I feel joy when I see those thin
   eternally delicate flakes.
Why then do they seek mutiny
   against the earth, and hide
   the gummy worms left last night? 

Live with snow long enough and  
   it will show you how dirty streets are.
Must we not only deal with our 
   concrete guilt, but also pray to
   new darkening clouds that we 

Do not slip into sudden sleep;  
   onto a black ice met briefly?
I preach to you on the square
   pedestal of my backyard,
   barefoot, defiant, and smoking. 

Can trees express the agony of
   their leaves, then limbs, collapsing?
It is the end of life, leading to the beginning  
   yet resurrection lasts not three days but  
   three months (or more). 

Will hot cocoa and the warmth of family  
   be enough to survive?
I will survive, but I am allergic to hot cocoa   
   and the irony begins with my mother   
   joining me, shivering, on the porch.