Winter Children
The groundhog is about
she’s fattening up
on hedgerow shadows.
Winter babies are carried
in small wombs over stark ground,
they have eyes and mouths by now,
almost human paws.
The snuffle of small rodents
awakens more as yet unborn.
My own inner child
opens its eyes, calls out once.
From all directions,
brown in-uterine orbs
glance my way.
Dawn, like a stripper,
takes off her long black gloves,
arrives in white thighs,
remembers that she too
is a working mother.
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