Over the end of fall
the children were singing—
of earth frozen to ice
with albino rages, rhapsodic storms
and the scent of the last tomatoes
of the harvest
The children’s throat parched
On the day of the circus
all the caged birds were lying dead
The pasture which once served
daisies to the heifers
was low with seed heads under blanket
of warm dirt
While this will wed the trees
another ring, some
will stay asleep overlong
The pennons will place a burial
into a cotton ball
We bury ourselves in blankets
with our people
Tonight in this freezing barn
I find more warmth than
any other day