to joan at the winter solstice

Shiny black, silvery mist;
the transformed leaves burn muffled.
Hard stoic days, nights sniffled,
the hours sift down pale dust.

Almost could be Zubenelg,
almost those days of the plague.
But seasons hasten to welsh
as car cup carriers seiche.

Bug pigments now.

"An editor is one who separated the wheat from the chaff, then published the chaff." --Adlai Stevenson