The old man breaks bark off of the tree that's
stood solitary between fence posts for three months -
he waters grasses that have turned a sickly green,
running printless fingers over a spring-wind-scarred scalp.
Young spirits shy from the marrows of wood,
pressing their footprints into battle dust,
ears sharp, collecting the caws of castrated crows
as they meet in the spindles of nude oaks and
forests festering in tar.
This old man washes his windows of winter,
leaves warnings to die in chimneys,
allowing naivety to scrape the brickwork -
spring cleaning, open the flue and
burn the corpses.
Things rot quicker in the warmth.
