To a Warbler

It’s mid-February. You should be down south
chasing a warm front along the Ionian coast, not perched
outside my half-cracked window where a scut of snow
fluffed your nest a dusting of years ago. Now, how best
explain winter to my daughter? Once [upon] there was a time
so cold you’d see your breath blown glass around
your mouth. Math-eaten, climate-singed, the change
came quick. In the still small span of a few lifted lifelines—
dour warnings bedamned—our tempest tossed, its leafless trust
trussed to the wings of a hymnal, taxidermied, back-taxed
to the be-yonder. O bluet-breasted, hexed & double-crossed
your swansong’s bygone beauty breathless, hair’s breadth to lost.