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.