December

by Michael H. Brownstein

Snow fell on white rose petals,
the way too early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,
the roses opened their mouths to the sun,
one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,
and three lilies spread their wings.
Seventy degrees, an easy wind,
warm swamps of what had been snow,
and we put away our winter clothes again,
headed out to the field of stone edges,
green brown moss, evergreens,
and wild flowers that did not know any better.