Here’s a wind for broken limbs.
No feast in the shiver of thorns —
no feast in the clouds clawing past.
Mute wreaths’ bell-mouths roll down the road;
trees’ bodies rattle in visqueen shrouds.
Now for the discount and the chorus,
the clappers wrapped and remaindered,
the last change hanging ragged, unrung.
There is yet a trickle in the timber by the highway;
in the yard a hawk stands watch, winding its complications.
The turning hand will keep its habit,
tallying the fancies of this weather-swept world.
Take up the year’s cold handle, then —
The tool warms in the working.