Nones Sonnet (February)
Fair morning framed by breezes in branches,
twitters of dilettante sparrows and wrens,
and high-wire gatherings of finches:
are fox-cubs sleeping by mothers, in dens?
Where does chipmunk sleep away winter’s lot?
Does mole begin planning his tunneling?
So many questions that autumn forgot
to ask, when fall’s crimson unravelling
began, are answered now with spring’s omens:
mud squishing underfoot, and ducks on lake.
Yet jack-in-pulpit still speaks no sermons;
Gé’s little preacher is not yet awake.
Cold wind brings clouds, bites through cotton and wool;
covers at sunset, Orion and Bull.