Holy Day
A holy day
not on any calendar
but in the middle
of January’s
deep freeze
when the woods
resound with cracks
like rifle fire
and their ricochet;
a sudden thaw
and the air’s
an inert element
picking up the scent
and traces
of the earth again
carrying them
beyond the bower
of broken limbs
and branches
to where heavy green
is remembered,
resurrected for a day,
an hour, under the sky
watermarked with floaters,
and illumined
by a worn sun
and tarnished moon,
the worthless coinage
of the old regime
whose loyal followers
hold their once-a-year
parade today.
