The February of the Bourgeoisie

Flash winds, stropped on the arctic, skin the flint
Outcroppings in the hills. It is midwinter.
The sun keeps strict hours and gives a stint
Of gold, for the earth buries whatever is lent her.
Ordered to freeze, the stingy trees are caught
Blue-handed with their fists in the ground. Things are taut.
The river has no currency: frozen,
It has closed its banks. Whatever interest grows in
is closed. Across the state whole towns and farms
Foreclose. Every friend is deep in the vault
Of himself, his saving bond with me at fault.
My mood is spring's thinking of all the white forms
Of the fields it must fill out for releaf. Dear friend,
I've heard that God saves. How I wish he would spend.

Copyright © 2003 Jene Beardsley All rights reserved
from The MacGuffin
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission