January Rain

First cousin to mud, soft-shouldered, I turn to quagmire. Ou sont les neiges?

God’s rain on the roof. The house vibrates from the washing machine’s dervish waltz.

Standing on the porch, I hear a winter wren’s summertime song: thin boneless notes.

Trunks of locust trees at the edge of the field have turned green from all the rain.

Green columns glowing in the dim light. The gray-brown ruin of a woods beyond.