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.