Three Too Many
The god is absent;
His dead leaves are
piling
And all is deserted
Basho
We’ve been teased all month
a blizzard, fifteen inches,
warm rain, shorts, t-shirts
riverbanks thick and confused
winter birds painful, awake
no place to go, song’s
lost, falling through maple twigs
two months to budding
like hands spread wide for water
split lips thirsty tongue have made
it this far through to
almost March starving, deaf, mute
and more, more to come
frigid wind: Saskatchewan,
fish silting river’s edge, on ice
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