I awoke to a song in the field,
penny whistle beckoning in the pitch
of expectation, last evening’s sleet
sighing beneath the morning sun.
Nothing melts this month, least of all hearts
of ice. What else can I say? The devil does exist
in the dreadful details. His heavy musk
hangs in the air, clawing at us. He is father
to many lies because his misery
loves their company.
But oh, that song! It lifts me
not into rapture over the Valentine sky—
this is not about transcendence—
but into the slow work of the rabbit outside,
foraging for food amid the shrubs,
toting a twig back to its den.
