The Weapons of Winter

The clouds shoot rain—machine guns
driving ants from their kingdoms—into kitchens.
Bullets overflow gutters—leaving shells
no one can pick up—only catch.

Puddles shy from high ground—landmines
poorly hidden and placed—harmless.
Explosions from potholes— like cannon balls
in swimming pools—and soaked pant legs.

Creeks run quickly—soldiers retreating
to fight another day—but never return.
Reservoirs full then empty—the belly
of an alcoholic veteran—sober.

Ammunition pumped to our faucets—
and weapons in our homes—
Weapons children can play with—spilling
water instead of blood—