Skunks are singing songs
Concerning scented misdemeanors,
While meadows stretch on vernal robes
Just got back from the cleaners.
Birds chirp out like leather birds—
Green buttons pressed in mud.
A freshet flows with melting snows
And grows into a flood.
But bitter days in Spring garb
Are but wolf weeks wrapped in wool
That sink teeth into certainty,
And—not too gently—pull.
