A landslide load of hissing snow
dumped swirling on a matted mass
of withered field now blunts the gnash
of cold like a window’s sleet-caked glass.
Licking its pelt in smothered warmth,
the woodchuck can drowsily forget
its sentry watch, though it might once
whistle in sleep at some dream-threat.
Now wildflowers, soaked in fertile dark,
recharge their rainbow splurge for the terse
season to come, when a marching glow
tramples to shards their sheathing ice.
Now through lashed nights of zero blasts,
the inward fold of buds and claws
wraps tight around the living pulse
awaiting the sun-cascade that thaws,
while the shrewd head who rolled and won
at Monte Carlo and flung in Rome
his coin’s wish at the floodlit fountain
snores by the fire, safely home.