Too old and crisped
to fight the wind
whose sport it is
to dizzy me,
I pretend
a diamond rink
in chassé with
Terpsichore.
Too old and crisped
to fight the wind
whose sport it is
to dizzy me,
I pretend
a diamond rink
in chassé with
Terpsichore.
clanged to hot glow
bright yet from autumn’s forge
amid the dry and fallow.
solitary
fragile petioleness
loner
extraordinary
in its oneness
wholeness.
in twiggy knots
it hovers
this newborn green
like wings
in thickets.
Gone to leaf
in a blink
be quick-eyed
and see.
May you find new green today, dear reader. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
lhude sing the flue
bloweth snows
and freezeth nose
sing the flue!
Crimson leaf doth nobly hold
but arresteth not the season;
cometh chapstick, cometh cold,
pulleth I my fleece on.