Ask a vintner or a fromager:

few things are more festive than decay.

The forests of my earliest childhood

are evergreen.

But fists are lonely

vulnerable things that can never match the strength of linked hands.

Let’s be honest:

we were adrift long before we were at sea.

The snow’s cold flesh

is as full of life as any corpse.

What brutal moonlight persisting throughout the day

has convinced us this stillness is meditative?

In the coming chill

we will all have to become subnivean.

What is more subversive than laughter?

Only love. Maybe.

snow squall

snow squall
the dog stops tugging
on the leash

January wind

draws a circle on the snow with a trapped leaf

diseased laurel leaves

red and green against the snow— Merry fucking Christmas

October snow

I hold onto an apple core until it turns brown