Wednesday, March 31, 2021

Look by Fanny Howe


Look at the snow, the ice, the rock
that bucks like a waterfall.
No crocus, no beanstalk,
no fruit or sun-dripping
iridescent rain.
There will be no list
outside a courthouse door
giving your name or the hour
of your appearance.
No announcement of
which of your friends
was first, last or in the middle.
No more nostalgia. 
You are a farmer in winter now.

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