Spawning

Frost silver on grass and cars
and the world wanting something for nothing
like a good cigar
that costs no more than a nickel.

What is left but death?
Something we attain without bluffing
and also life
that none of us was asked if we wanted;

like the shining frost
at the advent of day in December
that will, too, be lost
when the sun, as bright as a wish

warms the morning sky
and climbs the steps up its ladder
like a spawning fish
full of eggs on its way to die.