Winter Gives Up Its Ghost


Long winter, your teeth are coming loose.

Out the window, dead leaves hang themselves

from branches. Weathered sneakers pigeon-toe

from low-flying wires.

Bitter has turned its back on us, grows smaller

as it trudges down the potholed road. Your afternoon

dilute light is straining to concentrate

on forsythia as it scrawnies along a chain-link fence.

Long winter, you smell less like the grave, more like

the hyacinth someone planted in your heaved earth

last spring.