In winter I dream of things with wings,

cast back overtop black and yellow fur, pollen dusted.

Dormant stalks emerging from frozen soil,

basement bookshelves bearing jars of basil.

Lined meticulously, taped with care and bearing markers' etches.

Death upside down and backwards, demitasses of dirt,

fertilizer condensating, spade uncovering ground.

There is no death, I urge,

and mustard coloured clouds pass above hillocks and hollyhocks.

My derma flames crimson, condenses, and hardens as the light fades to dusk.