Brooding

The Snow Goddess came and sat on my garden

With her vast white bottom

Smashing flat the chard

Drooping the kale

Burning the lettuces with her frigid fires

Then departed

Lifting her divine buttocks skyward

Skirting them in cloud.

There appears to be nothing left but ruin.

All the brave rows lie like a defeated army

Green uniforms rimed in ice

Spattered with mud.

Even the wild wind cannot lift them;

They are sinking back into Earth

 one of her fleeting dreams.

Here is one benefit of age:

I have long memories and know

Now

This crushing descent as a brooding

An incubation.

Spring will vindicate this cold goddess

and my wisdom, too.