The winters no longer embody the innocence
of sled-riding and falling on my backside.
When I close my eyes every night
and day that I create my own cemeteries
from play-times past,
I signal a reunion with the enigmatic sound
of smashing in the dollhouse that I never
got for Christmas.
A dose of magnesium numbs my nightly
routine, bedroom linoleum is my muse.
I caress my deeming desire to carry through
the spring, as if the waking deer expect my woe.