Ponies;
ponies in winter.
Ponies in winter, ponies in soup.
Mandrills asleep on a rickety ladder
with tinfoil collections,
green pepper Madonnas.
In powder—
pup tent chowder—
goldfinch tantrums déclassé,
in bridal sonnets
snowdrops mourn their wistful garnets
and diabetic chipmunks wonder
why cavernous bees on cygnet pies
tempt mystic birds with crystal wine.
But erstwhile—
erstwhile blue kittens.
Mahogany mittens,
nevertheless,
which brings us back,
naturally,
to ponies in soup,
or ponies in winter—
if that makes more sense.