ant5

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wizened winter

apples worms

for the hens

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the frog shows

up at his own

funeral

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strands of mist

broken by

the cypress

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the cat tackles

folktales with

her toes

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tiers of fog

trees and dead trees

look the same

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pine needles

poking from your

sweater on the floor

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pecked by hens

the apple squeezes

out its seeds

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the drawer

you never open

flashlights and seeds

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beneath the fog

mist scurries

along the road

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without touching

my hand feels

the heat of your hand

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