Well into Winter
Any tree would seem to grieve,
what with the hawk lonelinessing
on her desiccated perch.
Any tree would seem to grieve,
what with the hawk lonelinessing
on her desiccated perch.
It need not be a desiccated wreck
of boards, completely uninhabited,
adobe bricks regressed to mud, hay. Heck,
Month of the least death poetry,
I pity you: a bone of a day
once every four years tossed your way.