Thirsty ground sucks the sky, leaving that brittle
blinkless blue, relentless
bright. Even that scrim
of snow went up, not
down. Deer hooves scuff
the hardpan, winterfat
ghosts its fancy feathers
over the field.
The ground needs a good cry.
Virga again, flirting its curtain
of almost, not-quite, maybe later,
thinks it’s beautiful
not to touch.
Our bodies, shameless
fruit. Slosh of our bellies
over stone.
Biblical,
forsaken.
Even our tears,
conserved. Branches tick.
Dumbstruck stone. Do something.
