IN KING OF PRUSSIA

Sitting here watching the snow slip from pines, no rush,
just blue jays going back and forth to the feeders,
the hush
when the world is muffled up in white. Airbrush
the scruffy lawn—that’s what the snow does, whoosh—
erasing bare patches, motley weeds. The opposite of lush,
a season of meager, everything holding its breath,
the thrush
yet to return, flute its ee oh lay in the woods. Sunrise’s
flush
seems promising, but spring is reluctant, like cornmeal mush
that won’t set up, a bud that won’t open, a gush
of water stuck in a frozen tap. Listen, I need some
color: blush
of a rose, redbird in the underbrush, face cards in a royal
flush,
or, if it just comes down to dust, the lurid glow of Orange
Crush. . . .
~Barbara Crooker
from my new book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1936196697/?tag=barbaracrooke-20
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