October light fractures the air, sundown
clawing at the eastern field of clover
where bees spin dizzy at the edge of shadow.
To be stung was like the hum on my tongue
when the tall grass hid the electric fence.
The green grass does its dying in the slow turn
of November’s bovine days, sluggish and brown-eyed,
cloud cover mirroring the slate-gray ground.
In my earliest nightmare, the ice age resumed
and froze us all in the branches of the tire-swing oak.
December’s crisp light promises wind and snow
but also the distant cracking through of crocuses,
one emerald shoot enduring all that cold.
When the next year comes, I want to be
that desperate for something green.
Dispatch From the Outpost
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