January is the curve
of my dog’s underbelly,
snow spotted and mud mottled,
warmest in its center,
my acres a swamp
dying to be paddled through,
a broke down shed lists to the left
in some interminable bow.
I’ve been hoping it could survive the winter.

We lay out a patchwork of blankets,
arrange a tea party and forget
how we were
snow blinded last week.

Pin a ribbon on my bikini
to never forget this thaw,
my bare legs, or the caps
of my shoulders blooming
next to the mire of African lilies and mums,

a sun hot enough to wring
the antipodean garden out,
to set ablaze the brickwork
of our family home
a coppery pot filled to the brim
with Liberty apples,
a laissez-faire mirepoix
fit for a pair of middle class kings.


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