Winter Psalm

October light fractures the air, sundown

clawing at the eastern field of clover

where bees spin dizzy at the edge of shadow.

To be stung was like the hum on my tongue

when the tall grass hid the electric fence.

The green grass does its dying in the slow turn

of November’s bovine days, sluggish and brown-eyed,

cloud cover mirroring the slate-gray ground.

In my earliest nightmare, the ice age resumed

and froze us all in the branches of the tire-swing oak.

December’s crisp light promises wind and snow

but also the distant cracking through of crocuses,

one emerald shoot enduring all that cold.

When the next year comes, I want to be

that desperate for something green.