To frogspawn
an egg is all.
(Together, a raft. A multiverse.)

A fox reads poetry
licks words till they stick to her tongue
(as anyone would).

The wasp makes her nest as soft as ash
a glue of whiskers adhere the layers
(without whiskers the fox cannot measure
herself
her home
the twin bowls her paws make in the snow that is
nothing more than tears
polished smooth as blue mirrors
or silk with a spider's web motif
ice bones beneath).

You splay, frozen in the pond.
Your lashes catch snow
(and sometimes my reflection).

At the end of the thaw
your body, a crescent
your hair a bloom of fox tail.