It is not the sapling or bit snow
that scrapes the window, coaxing,
Come out little boy, come out -
Come out where the sting wind blows
Come out where the wind plays a sapling
as a rube to scratch its bidding on a window.
That little life left tight against the foundation
missed in the pruning now the dim witted
accomplice to the sound of nails slow-scraped
on a chalkboard pane, Come out little boy.
And the spine shakes as the windchimes
rattle like keys, rattle like mother’s teeth
sharp above the crib, and taken to the breast
of winter, that cold milked ******,
that rippling drift. And that lullaby sings
another to sleep while the smallest of rodents
dig deep and wait, wait in some self made heat
that little boys and little girls somehow forgot
when the first snow fell upon their tongues
and they tasted death for the first time -
wet and quick gone with eyes slow closed.