Season's Scrimshaw
A crescent of geese sickles toward the forest.
No one will notice the hallelujah chorus
Singing claret and briar at evening's crest,
Changing to cherry wood in the West.
It is dark molasses time, the seasons run.
Air like frosted glass is melting toward the sun,
Swooping up barn swifts now ready for the sea;
Scrawled like scrolls, unfurling, rolling free--
Spilling to the hills now moving toward meerschaum,
Catching the clockwork of the snow so calm
In its conception; a storm of silver bees
Scratching season's scrimshaw on the milk glass sky with trees.
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