First cousin to mud, soft-shouldered,
I turn to quagmire. Ou sont les neiges?
God’s rain on the roof. The house vibrates
from the washing machine’s dervish waltz.
Standing on the porch, I hear a winter wren’s
summertime song: thin boneless notes.
Trunks of locust trees at the edge of the field
have turned green from all the rain.
Green columns glowing in the dim light.
The gray-brown ruin of a woods beyond.