A New England thaw held hostage.
Colonial Ghosts folded into cold mist
And bone-gray branches of maples
Still clutching their syrup.
Frost-heaved roads—sap buckets hanging empty,
Bare birches slow the season’s ache.
Spring is barely an idea, hidden beyond
Covered bridges just past the fog line.
The sugaring moon is a coy tease,
Like a cute barfly flashing her smile
While her man tends to the kids at home—
She’s not planning on coming for you.
Church bells muted in dense fog,
Snowmelt destined to turn to ice.
What birds are braced to break the hush?
Only a crow is cawing.
Drafty farmhouses and sooty wood stoves
Working overtime, boiling water for tea.
That barfly sucks warmth from desperados—
Kate the Great in her left hand,
Nothing in her right.
