Snow distributes script if music
Pastes its name to speech, all necking
With its own inflections in the orchard. Winter
Meanwhile strings its trinket to your joke before you
Even shake the punchline
Loose, regardless of your fleetest finger. Call it anti-
Pollination or
A fucked refrain, apple trees continue
Giving even now that
Anything-they-think-they-are performance, mirrors
For the weather, secret agents for a painting,
Plagiarizing ice your heart pied-
Pipers from October’s homes. You still insist on remaining the only
Elvis in the field?