Words of a Season

Bundled in scarfs the kids ride their bikes,
clouds surround the patches of sky,
a dry leaf makes room on a branch for a robin,
a snowbank bleeds into a fringe of grass.

The wind picks up grit from the street
cold enough to deny the sun’s intentions,
outside of town fields shine with muddy streams
that turn the roadside ditches into rivers.

The mind gags on its debris and smothers
the dull pulse of boredom in its pain,
you called me yesterday but today were silent,
a bluejay squawks as if it knew the reason.