Summer has fewer verbs than the fall, or the moon,
more loquacious on these cool nights is its adjective
for snow. Either way, when the sky traces its epiphany at dusk,
nudges the last streak of daylight to its corner,
there'll be nine tenths of a thaw; frost hardened leaves
in a decanter by the sill. A 50 50 split, November's brief
halcyon, then drift, then squall. Neon between stares,
or in your eyes more space than coherence.

Move your winter into mine.
The tongue of the season flicks in the fireplace
of dandelion, teacup and rose. Yesterday's gardens
are the affairs of angels, the fin de siècle of courtships
dissolved in a flake.

In this way a thousand lovers, like trees,
drop their limbs, confuse a winter's denouement
for sentiment. Outside our door, the frenzied chirr of flurries,
asphalt's light on embankment. Inside these walls,
a dragonfly estranged on the urn of a thermos,
forelimbs mimicking laurels, the garland of past seasons.

   
 

Work of mine has appeared in The American Literary Review, The Hollins Critic, The Northern Michigan Journal, The Reader (Oxford University), The Cortland Review and The Midwest Quarterly. Recent awards include a Pushcart Nomination, and I have a second collection scheduled to be published by Archer Books / Cadmus Editions this spring. Finally, I serve as managing editor for a not-for-profit publication called "Recursive Angel."

Visit David's personal page at: http://www.recursiveangel.com/david.htm

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