The air is drenched with cold
that grabs at the rock with greedy fingers.
Two bushels of needles in your hand
past the spattered field
where the feet burst from a hedge
woven as right as a basket.
Sixty miles north the end of
an empire slumbers as carbon
stains the churches, the palaces
and transfixed we gaze to the arc sodium.
As yellow as cupcakes in the sky.
A girl as pretty as a river
takes hold of your hands, your heart.
And you push the tremor down
as though it were sugar
laved with resin and rain.
She smells the way holly glows
In the light of the stars in the snow.
Five cups of sugar
to bury the foliage
and wait. Until
the life has moved there.