Every snow day she leaves stains
falling from her broken leg.
Then her wound dries into a coffee-stain,
it's warmth wishing for spring.
A long feud--becoming crusted from the wind--
ruined her day's nymph purity.

     The spirits grow weak
while prematurely birthed
and about as far-gone as Future.
That's the woe if the kingdom.

     Her doctors BLAZE
"It will stay," prescribe a
cup of gin
for those who think they rule Sundays.
Weather, whether bronze or silver, will always
give fate a gentle PUSH.

"Write with blood upon the snow," she says
to herself and for herself.
Flitting across a brightened lawn, a girl painting
the window. Then wiping it with an old cloth.
Thought the fairy, "If it must go--if we must move--
best it be to the rhythm of her
father's blues, her mother's industrial, funeral
porch-garden.

But
Yells of travesty aren't nearly as
stagnant as the physicians say--
because their rouge, fruitful words are sign
of another day.
Seemingly still--not"