The cloak:
the guise of sun
on February afternoon
in bright but dry,
out-of-sync season. . .

the blue and shining
flowery day
shows me
the thirsty year’s
quite parched array. . .

Foot before foot,
do I step forth,
seek refuge
in the land of oak
and creaky willow. . .
the peaceful slow, low stream
to ford. . .

And then,
head toward the hills–

on my ascent,
some trees I see,
by now my friends,
and they
greet me
as best they can–
with crumpled leaves
that now no smile can muster
as they stand,
in their plain thirst there–
by that,
near stopped
right in their tracks,

what I see
when I think back:
this time, last year
both they and I
did revel in their canopy
of purple leaves,
that framed the distant ones,
of glowing green–

Oh yes!
the sheer delight
had I merely at their sight
or in the fun
of passing under,
in a state of utter wonder. . .

a growing motion
sadly stalled
fueled only by
a stubborn adamance
to rise
to the call,
to see us through
this stretched and stingy
rainless time. . .

The special forced inertia
makes it hard
to rise,
to thrive. . .
and even hard
to mete one’s strength
to stay alive. . .

But lo!
the time!
How it unwinds!–

Dear Muse,
I’ve got to go–
there’s much I’ve got to do. . .
and dinner’s due
at half past five!

This entry was posted in Autumn, Poetry, Spring, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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