They dream impossible dreams of loquat seeds (gold flecked and slippery),
and clipper ships pitched on sea foam green,
hibiscus reds and you and me.

We kicked a new path back to the St. Marie past snowmen quiet and listening.
Brightly colored birds flitted past their coal-for-eyes. I took it for a twinkle.

If they could have held all that you said...
in their densely mitten packed cold,
then words would have fallen out come Spring like spoons and pistols
and pots and pans
and train wrecks and splitshots and marching bands.

And canaries light on corncob pipes
and would not look so bright
if not so cold.

They dream impossible dreams
of bitter sweet brevity
and standing at the foot of Niagara Falls
and buck and doe
and chief and squaw
and the path we kicked back to St. Marie past snowmen,
quiet and listening.
Canaries tracing loopholes against the gray,
you took it for a tangle.
You took me for a tangle.
If they could have held all that you said...

Canaries light on corncob pipes
and would not look so bright
if not so cold.