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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.