(After Eliot's Waste Land, of course)
December is the weird-ass month, raising
Daffodils from dozing land, mixing
Hallmark cards and bafflement, mudding
Up our seasons with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, no joke there,
Earth in forgetful grey, not even
Bothering to freeze the ticks.
I read, the long evenings, drive north and it stays warm.
What is the tropic here, what equinox
orders this unfrozen scene? Son, hey son,
You’re quick to say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, affixed to tweets,
And the almond gives no shelter, the Gulf Stream no relief,
And the Arctic the sound of water.…
I will show you fear in a season of rain.