Burning with a quick thin flame
charcoaled scarves blow whole and fall
in a field no green has touched at all.
heavy-handed, hoarse complaining,
treading down the liquid snow,
they strut on brittle legs, no shyness feigning,
thinking that it’s they who’s reigning.
Knowing no one any better,
they assume they are the best
Never will they understand the quaintness of this jest.