And the snow comes through

Snow drifts down through
bare twigs, bare twigs –
Oh! My blooms! My berries!

Are my sons impressed by my writings?
They don’t read them. That’s not what they want from daddy.
Do my friends like my new poems?
They don’t read them. They made up their minds about me years ago.
Is my dead father impressed by my book? It was written to impress him.

Sexy I was in blossom
but stripped by the sou’sou’wester
I am snowed now

Does my artistic taste impress visitors?
If it reflects theirs.
Is my generosity appreciated?
As likely to be resented.
Have lovers been charmed by my learnèd discourses?
You’re kidding.

I am a winter root –
foliage, flowers, fruit
were empty

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