February And Beyond

In the Garden Feb. 9th

Fresh breeze
has dried the garden chairs,
yew stirring deep, dark locks,
and yet no bird sings or chirrups near.

High air is cirrus slow,
but under it a tranche of drizzle-lourers,
dark with it, speed, squadrons
streaming purposively on discreet missions,
and sun is patient for his moments.

Solitary gull, cutting over his emergence,
leads my eyes to dazzle.

Little birds finally return: “Seek, seek!”
their binary digitizing silence.

I long for daffodils
and yet I have no bulbs planted here,
though cut they sit in a vase
opening their clean, yellow
trumpet voluntaries
of promises.

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