Whose dusty boots are those,
\nstanding at attention
\nin the car stripped of its plumage
\nnear the desecrated rag?
\nThe ground, so hard in the winter sun,
\na pellet in the soft heart
\nof a warm-breathing deer,
\nmasks death with a facade of glory,
\nand a worm, frozen to the wood
\nof an old tree’s casket,
\nfalls without a sound as tribute.
\nHubless tires, like so many
\ntravelled eyes among shapes
\nin this graveyard above the brookpond,
\nstare at the sky, unspinning,
\nperhaps forever; and, in their shadow
\na stalwart weed pokes its tongue
\nthrough the jagged mouth of a rusted can,
\nmocking the symbiotic plan.
\nBelow, the water, robbed of beauty,
\nmirroring the hillside’s desolation,
\ndrains drip by drip and drip back toward the heart.
\nOn the last day of October,
\nI caught the water lilies crying.
\nNot too long thereafter came the ice.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"