Drifting

The unlikely treasure
of nostrils burdened with open earth and rain,
is shrouded in December's curtain of bland and plundered days.

The steaming kettle of the melting skies boils until we can't resist
and must draw the curtains of clouds on these fading Vermont hills.

I will not be swindled into thinking snow won't arrive angrily,
exacting payment for this balmy change of season's mind.

My intention is a magnet setting the compass
to point directly at the schism between what I know
and what the world will become.

Until the icy winds cut into my cheeks,
let my smile exhaust the foggy moon
while she makes her journey to the fiery line
at the drifted, western fences.