England’s gentle way:
Ten thousand soft gradations
Of green and of grey.
Veils of impish rain,
The grim side of Spring’s bright coin,
Smirk “nothing is free”.
Snow piles receding
Reveal unimpeded streets,
Heavy with freedom.
Strangers have treasure
That they long to give away
If you will just ask.
Each year’s new teachings
Forge scarlet exuberance
Into a white glow.
In Fall’s gold footlights
My drums on a sudden stage
Demand to be played
Lulled by Autumn’s warmth
Into a coatless commute,
November pounces.
On summer sidewalks
Lie leaves too green for the ground
Blown down like soldiers.
Too old for this bar
Youth’s platitudes clattering
Into my mulled wine.