A-one, and a-two, and a-three
gray squirrels in slow-
this is when they come
into heat, as the restless town
sifts under powdered sugar.
Where is the rich broth with marrow,
where is the noisy brass gong?
Windowpanes color with steam.
Something celery and something orange
marry above the stove’s blue flame.
Somewhere a ledge of brittle ice
softens to syrup. You don’t see,
but sunlight’s shade turns
acetylene. A woman
steps out of her bath
kimono, and cranes stretch
tremulous above the grass.
What is that tinkle of brass
bells? New snow cascading
from branches, like wedding veils.
—Luisa A. Igloria
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.