MERCY
January-cold,
snow sits mounded
on the Colorado spruce
like a fat Buddha
glistening in sun
Nirvana
this must be
not to shiver
not to talk until spring
and then the tulips
sit bulbous
atop themselves
stems
of rebirth
I think of you digging
with cow manure
planting the colors
row upon row
that now hide
smug and whitened
under a winter moon
Meditating
now and here
O great white lie.