by Jacob Butlett

A patch of gingko-scented 
snow rests like a cat 
at the foot of the steps,
yawning tawny crystals
into the muddy grass
laden with twiggy leaves.

A child lays two crocus 
blooms on the patch, 
two blue eyes bulging 
at the moon, teardrops of dew
ablaze with fading stars.

The snow’s slushy guts pool 
around the dawn like a moat— 
grip the morning’s cold neck 
like a rosary of razors.

The snow’s gone by midday, 
having risen like a shadow 
to crawl to the edge of the yard,
where a puddle shines like a font 
over the grave of a cat, 
whose owner remembers 
at the end of every December.

Jacob Butlett is a Scholastic Gold Key recipient with an A.A. in General Studies and a B.A. in Creative Writing. His creative work has been published in many journals, including The MacGuffinPanoplyThimble Literary MagazineCOUNTERCLOCKCacti FurRabid OakGhost City ReviewLunch TicketAnti-Heroin ChicInto the Void, and plain china. In 2018 he received a Pushcart Prize nomination for his poem “The Hail.”