Three Dayts After

Three days after Christmas

a cold rain falls, a kind of relief.

Beads of rain form on twig tips,

on needle bunches, are flung down

by a low wind. The smell of winter earth

suffuses athe woods and fields

with cool rationality. We think now

of how to implement sober ideas.

A seed catalog has come in the mail.

The potatoes in the bin are getting eyes

Sunset has moved an inch or two

northward. Somewhere wild geese

grow restless. We begin

to remove tinsel, to cut wood.

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