Maman in the Snow

She must top 30 feet; snow-covered head
inclines as if to peer at human prey
among her feet. In friendliness or dread,
the passers-by look up, then stroll away
believing their umbrellas keep them safe
from Maman’s fangs of bronze, her steel legs,
evoking equal parts menace and grace.
Don’t think her cherished sac of marble eggs
makes her a presence staid and matronly
safe to walk under, maybe even touch
at tapered ankle, bronzed and curving knee.
A friendly landmark… maybe not so much.
Maman’s not used to snow. Fresh-fallen flakes
at dawn reveal a midnight hunter’s tracks.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside