Winter Kills the May Pole


Balancing a frozen rose
on a May pole is the fear
of machinery. The cord one foot
behind your head, its wayward stem.
Red is heavier than white
and thorny foot to foot. 
Two is easier than one trellis.
Their centers are fragrant
antiques.
Others wonder about
eyebrows, skirts,
needles falling, the morning dance.
At night, the river flows between,
over-wintered and dark.
Merry May is tiny back and forth,
a problematic dip.