A cruel time: snow

like dogs being whipped,

demons rushing through the whirling wind:

For what do we wait? May a change

of seasons assuage a feeling, negate

the crush and the condemnation of a judgment?

Why is weather such a divination of the future?

In my house

the fruits do not ripen: crisp cold

pears are green leather; those purple seedless grapes,

of such magnificent potential,

are in no rush to develop their sweetness.

Waiting for such perfection we must grow as old as the mountains.

Is it too much to ask: Must even one’s

most harmless illusions be dissipated?