The Frost

When the sticky clatter of the mind-wasps

trapped together with their tangled feet,

and agitated scratching,

become one confused swarm

in the hollow nut of the skull

there is always this:

the frost spread like thin, sweet icing
over the field this morning

in a delicate lace,

not in the least bit inquisitive about how it got there

or what will become of it

come noon.