Sealing the Frost

Come with me. Come with me please, and stop pulling that face. This is how quests are.
&&&&&Don’t you think this cord rasps my own shoulder, that the
&&&&&&&&&&trowel and wooden
stick lurch
&&&&&&&&&&and beat against the sides of my pail?
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&Supplication –
So what that our only
&&&&&&&&&&are the pots of strawberry popcorn
&&&&&propped near the cellar door
&&&&&&&&&&our rusted gutters
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&and pockmarked vinyl –
Not exactly the terraced fields of Santa Eulalia back here, is it?
&&&&&&&&&&And not much to protect I suppose
&&&&&&&&&&your vague vision of
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&jarred baby ears rubbing lurid
&&&&&elbows with the CDs and paperbacks in your office. Still.
&&&&&&&&&&Climb. Near the top there’s that gulley never dry this time of year, and the
&&&&&two-trunked red oak.
That’s where we’ll mix the cement and slither figure-8s
&&&&&&&&&&around the tree’s crotch
&&&&&and my own:
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&wood tethering flesh.
&&&&&Then – well,
&&&&&&&&&&it’s just a few yards down to the line
&&&&&&&&&&etching the
&&&&&scarred ridge like a
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&primmed-up mouth.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&That’s where the frost spirit lives.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&Ease me down with the cement and trowel.  I’ll do some
&&&&&&&&&&frosting of my own –
&&&&&That journey’s end,
smear-swirl meditation
&&&&&to all bakers.
Perhaps a whispered prayer to Ix Chel –
&&&&&that’s my business.
Listen, it’s either all this or you delete her texts and pour the vodka down the sink.