i'm burying this winter by the
spadeful, slicing holes out of
the garden, laying slivers of
january gently in the bottom,
and heaping soil overtop,
healing the ground.
like moses' mother laying her baby
in a basket, tender, letting him
slip away for a time,
but suspecting his return,
altered yet familiar,
shod in a new voice
or sprouted like a wheat stalk.
winter, however, remains an
infant throughout the years,
infant-bear,shriek-berry,
gilded chimney-skater,
and always will be his own
monstrous merry self,
dwindling down into the ground
each year
as i bring out my spade.
