the dried wild mustard looks ready for anything
icy meadow
dried seedheads get to bloom a second time
white with rime
the locust sapling looks electric beside the bowed spruce
back field
fog drifts through branches rigid with ice
beside the oak
with a huge round hole an uncanny silence
south roof icicles
no less grotesque for being spindly
beside the woods road
a single stalk of grass pointing toward town
greenbriar canopy
a thousand sections of sky & one yellow leaf
fresh snow
a boil on the black birch looks good enough to lick
handprint
on the fogged-up window to view the sunrise
groundhog
plowing through brambles spots me through the glass
damp with snowmelt
the oak log’s colors are so bright I have to touch
