Winter Weather

        I used to walk a trail in the dunes 
near Provincetown with my pockets full
    of birdseed. I liked the zip of the chickadees’

        scratchy feet on my hands
as they jockeyed for a spot. If I could feel them again, I
    might get in the spirit. No, these days

        out west I stop my car to call 
over the horses from their grazing on Wilson Creek 
    Road. The goats come sometimes

        to see if I have carrots.
I run out of things to say to humans, though I love them.
    Trash cans blow over in the wind

        by my house on the bare ground
this December. Unraked leaves will land somewhere else. Why
    did I come to rest here in this desert valley?

        What clues in the weather,
at the bottom of my cup? Air drags heavy clouds dark
    over the mountains. Let the world carry on:

        It’s A Wonderful Life with helpful angels
and the wish for redemption. But I’ve grown tired of wishes,
    forgotten in a pocket, un-proffered.

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