What Is More Beautiful Than Winter

for Tammy

and water glinting on your boots?
That’s what I love about the snow
to hear the soft warble of songbirds
sloshing around below my shoes for
months after they’ve all flown south.

If you stand still and quiet, then
you’ll be painted into the night sky,
the hums of long dead crickets will
echo on in twigs sailing the winds.

The trees are braver than us both
because they go on when their fruits rot.
It’s not intuitive to hold out so long.
How do they breath into the blue clouds,
their roots smothered under cold dust?

I’m glad that the fruit is underfoot,
glad for as long as I can listen
to the very distant rustle of
your memory in apple-red leaves.

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