Through the Window

Etched with snow
the garden blooms
in bold disarray
beside the compost
fenced deep with garbage,
grass, layers of leaves,
the alcoholic mush
of fallen apples.

Tracks come and go:
raccoons, deer,
the neighbors' dog,
my own leading back
to where I sit now
with hot tea,
honey-glazed bread,
flurries erasing

what my eyes write.

Roger Pfingston  copyright 2001

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