Middle Winter 
The brown regret of January grass:
A surface gesture only, as if it wants
to be covered by snow but who knows
what word it mouths when under the white smother.
Mild late afternoon, with the moon sailing
across the the clear day, almost invisible, like
a discarded present thrown by the cut tree’s
memory back into the house
as it was dragged trunk first through
the front door, a small wrapped thing landing softly
against a wall in the foyer, no name
tag: so the moon lands against the
bare trees, seen by almost no one.
Only when one looks unfocused
to the woods one feels like a crumpled
gift has been placed in the hand.
The sun meanwhile corrugates a cloud
over the tree-line, travels like a tourist
out of season to the nearby roofs,
To the backyard behind the shed
where the brown grass complains
Each time the skeletal hulk loses another
needle, twisting in the air as it accelerates
Like a knife thrown to kill the past.