The forgotten shoulders
of February snow settle
into the sun-starved earth
mud seeps into cracks
and crevices carved
by the relentless ice,
the Loki spirit
of early morning frost
that charms and dazzles
even as it kills
This is the season
where old secrets
emerge from slowly
melting tombs;
people shying
from decomposed unknowns
dance sidestep
to avoid contamination
Better to focus
on the promise of beauty
hinted at by the return
of the solar warmth,
the miniature Death Valleys
forged by meltwater cascades
a flood to wash away
the salt and silt,
the guilt by association
We must all look
on our collective leavings
and sigh in righteous
consternation, at this
yearly ode
to universal apathy
and then forget
with every step
that ever it was ours.
– T.H.
