Bare branches reach out like fingers
grasping fruitlessly for their neighbors.
Still matte river, grey-cat grey
reflectionless, sulking in the noon gloom.
Icy air seeps
Through door-cracks and coats and
I wish I were a mushroom,
bobbing in an iron pot
Or a salamander, not
slimy-slick clammy cold
but sparking hissing roaring
in garnet-glowing embers.
Instead I am a crocus, feckless flower,
buried deep, grumbling in the soil,
awaiting winter-ending warmth.
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