Three Poems
If you asked, Io would say that first winter, with its crows,lumped clouds, sifting snow, frantic finches, and its jaywho screamed thief, thief as the glazed saplings fellalong the buckled asphalt, seemed never ending. In that far,far country, the sky stretched to the color of wet steel,water pooled in cows’ tracks, and footstepsechoed across slick…