a translation gone askew

coded messages in the boxwood,
hierographics in the snow on mulch
draw a frozen portrait unlike the scream
that etched last night in lively harmony.

one was livid, the other strangely mute
in an umber canvas of sweating melt.

lurching towards a foregone preference
one imagines tumbling in explosive red,
desired but orchestral in a mutely gated opera:

here the strings that soar,
the brass that drones
and the surprise of this prickly season:

a quiet soprano.