17. February Day

There is water in the wood
and tiny mirrors foot-shape-mimicking.
The slow-thaw has released
sodden leaves that squelch into the path.

The timber bridge is wobbling now
though hoar-ridden
passage of years and constant footfall
have unmanaged it.

And higher in the wood
the dwarfed and twisted trees
like bodies in the chambers
scrambled over bodies

clawed-up above the rising gas
still twist an elbow here, a wrist there
and shake, a nuptial mist of saffron
from their swelling buds.