February

In last year's leaves an oak is clouded.
In soporose russet houses
the stars pulsating on cold air.

More than the wind-picked branches,
poplars whistling as a strand of whale ribs;
more than the thick wall laurel, holly, pine,

this cyning slæping, refuses both
donning and doffing to season's timeline,
never punctuated, but slipping note;

limbo limb and leaf 'til, passing him by,
the fallow chapters of spent foliage
dry in void winter, rattle, rattle,

as of a vein of might whose roots
speak through dried up scales, air-shared
its in-rings, not bared, but mute

a whole night's partaking, of good repute.