There is no sound quite so handsome
as an old wooden bridge
rigid and creaking
beneath the haul of one more winter
in a chorus of concoctions
with the cold pond unlocking
its swirled pearls of coated ice
glossy black as a cow’s glass eye
bubbling from below the floating sighs, as alone
footsteps traipse along
the arthritic bark of this old man’s backbone.
Indeed, it tugs the young shanks of the heart, becoming
from calved curmudgeon
to spring’s thaw, reckless
with warmth and wild relief.
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