Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Thin Ice

Spring Peepers

March and their pearly tender throats groan
with the weight of drifted silence, warming
to the ticklish work of wriggling free
crescendos of lust a frozen lozenge
thawing on the tips of sluggish torqued tongues
primed to stab frenzied clouds of damselflies
oscillating low over the teeming
black water, turning for just a moment  
away from the churlish cacophony
to consider my clumsy mid-winter
tattoo on the frozen thrumming drum head
of the pond, a croak of indignation  
against my boorish wallow over thin
ice spidering outward from my snow shoes.

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