Through kitchen windows
And counting on the fingers
I begin my walk.
Central Hudson guy
Runs around checking meters.
Nobody loves him.
Caught in bush tangle
A flattened little white disk,
Perhaps from the stars.
Wind whips past the field
Rolling icy up the road,
Bellowing softly.
Bi-colored cooler
Lies on its side near driveway.
Will be there 'til spring?
White flickers float again;
They seem to be gathering.
Will they be legion.?
Last green leaves hanging
Topped with a defiant crown
Tremble in the wind.
Against the woodshed
Lean tools of spring and summer
Waiting patiently.
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