Poem: December Field

 

December Field

 

a juggle of sticks in a muddle of grass,

the field a whorled circus 

of basketry, ice, and all the old loves:

 

dregs of sepals 

posing as ants under spits of snow,

 

and the flaxen cross-stitches,

each a splurged drama of glacé feasts.

 

wormwood rouge, far too noisy

sports on the nosegays 

of rose thorns, web orts, and beetle crusts,

 

all of it, everywhere, 

tickled by a thistle.

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7/13/24