Flocks of robins, each orange
chest blazing like a furnace,
huddle darkly in groves grown quiet
and warmed this winter morning.
A black fog palls the town,
the smudge pots' night-smoke snuffed·
fires that farmers lit to keep
the ember fruits from freezing.
And those who stoked the groves
all night return: sleepless children,
dark and small as sweeps,
now nod their heads in breakfast plates
of toast with summer jams.
Long dawns, day-long dawns,
from which lovers do not rise for work:
windows shut firm, thermostats up,
we'll stay in bed today.
While on the street headlights cortege
the neighbors to work
and the streetlights burn all day.
- Jeffrey Croteau