Old man winter’s got a gap-toothed scowl on his stubbled
crag. He spits blizzards like Copenhagen chew, expectorates
Nor’easters in autumn’s brass spittoon.
Summer’s child isn’t welcome here. These river bones ache,
a prehistoric fang embedded in the meat of me. I’m cold-packed
and hung. Whaler’s hook jailed. A seasoning of snow.