Dedicated to Ruskin’s bearded hobo: 2010
Hobos and homeless, shadowed hunched balls buried in dirty blue sacks
pause, will they become snowberries?
Easterlies blow minus zero temperatures
across the land; deluged in virginal snowfall
espied, one snowberry. Settled in Ruskin’s door
waxen, white, an imperfect ball
of frozen humanity. It lingers; will it wake?
Evergreen, it waits the belated sirens
the bellowing howl of crisis management
the battered minds of all seeing tired medics.
Alive or dead? Humanity palled.
No ears will hear it; no mouth will it kiss, no words will be spoken.
Infinite replications in winter doorways
no-one sees, no-one acts. Snowberries fall.
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