My foot sinks deeply into the snow.
The boots leave giant holes in the land,
while I follow the smaller fox prints.
Stumbling, for I have lost my way.
The sign for Bethlehem snow covered;
perhaps it is somewhere in east Vermont.
The trees are all barren from the cold.
The fox’s glare is often pitiless,
as pitiless as winters frozen touch.
Prophets and apostles migrate south now
along with the fowl of the air and Jews;
to where the signs are not snow covered.
New England longs for the warmth of spring,
but I pine for the deep Florida heat.
I want to watch the heron rise steeply.