When the first day of snow come
the city of thousand starlings and thousand bearlings wake.
We wake not in the midst of
ascorbate-enrichèd acerola
but a white blanket over the fowelberry feast.

To-day is not the day of chestnut-throwing.
To-night is not the night of drinking
potatowine with salmonberry smack.

¿How many mee halls do we need to call
before we embark in enterprise
of rosehip-picking?