The Wintergarden Ll Poem by Morgan Michaels

Hum-ho, the summer was too long.
(where have you heard that, before?)
But enough of shallow summer song!
There is only winter, here, and
soon it will be snowing, snowing,
out of a perlmutter sky
which we can only scan, shrugging, and say
'Schnee. Schnee.' again and finally,
and wondering, wonder 'why why not and why? '

There is no longer need to proffer water
Store it away, away, then:
set the can down, there,
beside that granulation of the heavens,
nitrous fodder, yet so pricey-why? ,
that golden-spoons from cans
and means as much to flowers as their nectar
does to hummingbird and butterfly.

Every work is done.
Labor has a different meaning now-
Adorning age
these winding transparencies
of flower-flesh, inviting contemplation
prove to be the only worth-it wage
and only valid hedge against inflation:
you should need but put your feet up, no?
scan the sky and watch them flutter-blow.