A sunny April day in late January.
A warming strong wind the past days
erased the remaining snow, dried the ground.
I took tea outside and read new poems.
Buds watching me chuckled over my joy.
that clings to the branch tightly closed,
layered in fine colors for the Spring –
unashamed she will show Her yellow petticoats
to me and dances with the wind.
Perfume upon me from an immodest touch.
The solstice came, the days lengthen and
winter blows colder winds, but tree man,
a gentle soul, not a horror legend,
holds on to his brown autumn coat,
guarding the creek, watching me grow old.
The sunset color of this morning’s tea
in its clear glass is a filter
where I can view this day’s end.
In oak, cedar and maple liquid hues,
I see early winter as autumn again.
I picked apples and the last tomato,
but there are still plenty in stores.
And they will be there all winter,
but my brain and body knows it’s
apple time and some things are ending.