January 15th, there is...

there is a symphony of rain
in the street

a russian ballet of it
dancing over the
broken phelanges of the trees

there is a bare patch
in my yard
where squirrels
meet
for war counsels;
weather has negotiated
for them a cease-fire

there is a thorny bush,
a bristling cat-o'nine-tails
the bush of a lesser god
bent with ice
to the ground
where no one dare
walk unshod

there is the pretty waste of winter
fallen across the earth
lifeless rain
choking the seeds in the
birdfeeder;
leafless fingerstrokes scratching at the sky;
spirit of the tree barely spared
as an angel with a silver trumpet
passes over, dancing a dirge
for the firstborn days of
this new year