Anthropocene Blues

This winter the bluebirds
have stuck around, snowbirds
of a different sort. I spied them
checking out new digs, 
the handmade house they rejected
last year. Three degrees this morning,
but the temperature’s rising fast.
By afternoon, last night’s scanty snow
that floated down 
like a memory
is gone

The river still runs black,
we haven’t skated on anything
but the make-do kiddie rink 
with a six-inch edge
that the town fathers created
with a green garden hose.
Fall’s harvest dwindles
in the overheated cellar,
the last butternut squash
reminds us of summer sun,
while we wait for planting
season, dreaming
of eating bitter greens