From Things You Find in a Poet's Beard by A.F. Harrold


Frost spins white lines

on the lawn,

grass turns glass-like,

crisp crackle-snap



Robins puff themselves,

look as big as tennis balls,

as light as dandelions,

tap on the bird bath’s

ice rink concrete.


There’s the doorbell.

A blue-lipped lady

wants to come in.

The doormat

flutters with snow.