No sooner have they dropped their leaves
than willows almost glow with yellow suede.
This cloud-bright, stilly day
picks out the shades and tints of bark and buds;
sky lifts its skirts, teasing and coy
like a sweet girl sent to veer
a kingly heart from tragedy.
Yes, yes, ‘I wish’, but sing;
and now a mellow sunlight at my back,
cloud-filtered dream, joins in with me;
the lights allow me time to type this verse;
but roads run carefree so I rubberneck
at many catkins hung so thickly by,
a little yellow spring in January.
Windless now,
they will not shake their tails at me today.
I drive on to the city and its fumes,
'improvements' that clog up its veins with rage;
and yet delight stays with me
all the way -
still smiles me as I type this page.