Snakes in Winter

Deep in the woods,
under the sprawled upheavals of rocks,

dozens lie coiled together.
Touch them: they scarcely

breathe; they stare
out of such deep forgetfulness

that their eyes are like jewels—
and asleep, though they cannot close.

And in each mouth the forked tongue,
sensitive as an angel’s ear,

lies like a drugged muscle.
With the fires of spring they will lash forth again

on their life of ribs!—
bodies like whips!

But now under the lids of the mute
succeeding snowfalls

they sleep in their cold cauldron: a flickering broth
six months below simmer.