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Gifts of the Winter Witch
A venetian red yearling’s head
Pops up
From behind a fallen log
Licks rouge from its lips
And the syrup sipped from dark maple bark
Ears tweaking
To the snow-crunch creak
Of my dog and me approaching
From down the trail
Forest
Tamed by these trampled snow-winding paths
The deer doesn’t flinch
Up ahead
Top of the trash receptacle
Is aflutter with cardinals and sparrows
Though observed
The object has not coalesced to solid reality
Remains a quiver of particles
Withering with infinite probabilities
This should not be
Ah
I see
What it is
Slices of strawberry apple orange watermelon banana cherry
Have been perfectly aligned spaced and placed
By somebody
As juicy trails of treats for the starving
Collection of fruit on a countertop log
Tapped across a fencepost
Table-topped to a stump
Necklaced across a trailhead sign
Little delectable rainbows scattered by a hand
All over the park
Flamingos may come
Hearing these rumors
I imagine
The feminine work behind these succulent lifesavers
The work of a woman
A mother
An older lady
Who was determined that morning
Packing plastic baggies the night before
With morsels carefully counted out
To be fair
With a lovely variety of fruit
Pinched and selected from grocery store shelves
Sliced precisely by her parry knife
Sorry if that presumption is not acceptable
In this modern age
But we all know it’s true
And is beautiful
Call her a wayward witch
An angel
Messalina
Daughter of Cleopatra
Mistress to Van Gogh
Wife of Jesus
A goddess of which we’d be so much better
If she were
To rule over
The velvet corners of the Earth
From a garden throne
Men like me
Bowed to her knee
Like these animals and birds that she’s fed
Today
Beholden to the world of majik
Yes
We’d be so much better
If we were fed from the broken-braceleted hand
Of a woman
Who
From her kitchen window
And snake-led dreams at the flight of her feet
Is unafraid to say
I do not fear you
I will bring forgiveness to the creatures of winter
Startle the men who pass by
I will feed them all
The fruit of my Knowledge.
Copyright ©
Robert Trezise Jr.
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