Their is talk of winter.

 
The Bear is paranoid,
and talk of war is close.
 
I went to the Garden Cafe.
girls serving as if spring is coming
and the honey suckle,
waiting for a home.
 
Lisa bought me a Sylvia Plath mug,
to cross the shallow river on stones in summer;
it is Valentines day,
a willow sways in the wind.
 
Put a paper bag on your head,
kiss your ass goodbye.
 
Boo. the Russians are coming
and so is spring.

 
~