The Winter Garden

I slipped too soon into winter’s cocoon this year.
In other words, the dried and wilted slough
of summer still juts through the garden, here
the flayed fruit’s stalk, there the sepal’s ruff.

I’ve been remiss, completely derelict.
The lingering thyme pokes through the snow to scold.
What’s desire anyway but what’s unpicked?
I’m too long dreaming to harvest dreams gone cold.