Snow peels off winter’s wounds like
skin off a blister on a dancer’s heel:
there is a beauty cloaked in ugliness
as the old hide releases, baring the
fresh inert wounded flesh beneath.
Old grass from last fall oozes like
a new lymph-sodden scab, clotting.
I look at the dirty detritus of winter:
old dog turds, greyed dabs of paper
collected layers of wet dust staying
as the old rotting snow thaws and leaves
the stinking readyness. Spring is coming.
[I have posted two supporting photos in Platinum River.]
