Weekly poem on Trump Presidency



That Damned Cheeto is Taking Steps to Abolish the Environmental Protection Agency, Even Though my Goats Are Shedding Their Winter Coats, There’s a Severe Thunderstorm Watch On, and It’s Not Even March Yet


It’s February and four robins are scavenging
in my crabapple tree, picking through wrinkled red orbs
because the worms are still comatose. A honey bee
crash-lands on my ski jacket, her proboscis sampling
the lime-green polyester, desperate for a flower.

And it’s way too soon for the gang of red-winged blackbirds
shrieking conk-a-ree over dormant bulrushes. Right now
we should be jamming carrots in frozen white faces,
shooting down frozen hills on plastic deathtraps,
and shovelling ourselves into cardiac arrest. Instead
there’s a woolly bear inching out from the ice-crusted shoulder
of bare pavement, and I’m losing boots to sucking mud, and
in the woodlots, they’re tapping the veins of confused maples,
while on the river, the cabanes of tardy ice-fishers
are sinking in the early thaw, along with a truck or two.

Last week I stood on what looked like solid snow,
but it was just verglas with a veneer of slush, so
when my dog moseyed left, I went down,
skull-smacked and star-gazing, just as confused
as this planet we’re all trying to live on.


As a kid, Natalie Rowe wrote oodles of poetry, including a sappy ode to two amorous seagulls that was published in the local paper's "Young Poets" section. Her father had it laminated. She has now returned to poetry writing with fervour. When not writing, Natalie makes art, keeps bees and lives on a farm near Ottawa with a multitude of rescue animals, where she often gets her best ideas while shovelling manure. Find her at www.beemeadowfarm.com or tweet @Knatolee


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