With frostbit extremities and my neck craned, I watch
the arborous fireworks of barren winter oaks
vein a crackling black sky.
Stars like salt in dark chocolate make shapes
and tell ancient stories of creatures and feats.
Once from olive groves and public baths, New England winter
disperses their narratives and resets their locale
to above my head.
My head and my feet are protected by layers,
like the mismatched fence defining my lawn: they
surround a rented cold parcel called “me,”
which once thawed will sprout
whatsoever I plant.
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