weeds at winter’s end

a few still manage to stand upright

snowy field

the milkweed’s silk has frozen in mid-spill

under an impaled rag of a leaf something squeaks

a faint smell of summer through an open door

a wind-chapped look where the old red bleeds through

any arrangement of sticks seems significant

I remember every place I’ve seen that ember

only the H is still visible on the No Hunting sign

on the flat black roof haloed in dew

root hairs on a toppled tree are the only gossamer

weed stalks stipple the mountain laurel’s shadow

a doe follows the bootprints as far as she can