January rain
No one likes it, pelting
already tender snow
outside the weathered mill
into the slush that clings
to the freezing poodle’s
paws, rubbed raw from last night’s
salt, cracked so open you’d
think all else of him would
slip out into the slush
that stings the freezing mill.
February rain
Let the dead be
dead. Nothing more
can be done for
them. We, living,
still need to live
in spaces snowed
over, though the
Thursday rain cleared
them out some, and,
it can also
be said, by the
evening, the sun,
which we never
deserved, still warmed
us with its red
heat anyway.
___________
Matt Stefon lives north of Boston. He has been religion editor of Encyclopaedia Britannica and poetry editor of West Texas Literary Review. He has two chapbooks and 463 wiffle ball home runs.