Tuesday, December 11, 2012


The frost on the field reflected sky this morning.
I could walk across the field and walk on water.
But from the edge you would grab me by the ankles and pull me under.

But say I swim across this field to the other edge of the naked forest
And seeing it devoid of thickset greenery I take a shortcut
You, in camouflage browns, would ambush me along the way.

And were I to continue my headstrong endeavor through the wood
I would rather meet a bobcat who would run away from me
Than be scratched on the shins, arms, and face by you again.

And all this you do to me in your driest brittleness
Devoid of summer's vigorous verdant virility
For your judgmental thorns know no season's respite.

I heard through the muscadine grapevine you were delicious. 
I rather doubt that; nevertheless, I am going to eat you come spring!
And that was probably your plan all along.