the snow all around is flecked with black
dead sharp-shinned hawk
only its inner eyelids have fallen shut
the long shadows
move silently where horses once paced
fleshy leaves
ideal for the indoor desert face the snow
Hercules’-club
skinny shadows lead to thorny trunks
deep in the woods
the setting sun fingers two witch-hazels
a crowd of weed-stalks
they’ll all fall down when the snow melts
trapped
monarch caterpillar
there is no milkweed but milkweed
weeds at winter’s end
a few still manage to stand upright
snowy field
the milkweed’s silk has frozen in mid-spill
in the snow
under an impaled rag of a leaf something squeaks
