From an old fawn stalk,
one of many,
scarcely dithered
by small capricious paws
of a velveteen breeze,
this day,
half cloud half haze,
meeting in gauze
a muslin, Southwest sky
brightened by white-glare,
steeped in lanterning gleams,
springs a virid blade.
Tender spear
can only cut the light,
it seems;
yet stabs that silent fact,
spring's lit fuse,
more eloquent than any
barrister's pointed finger.
A moon's solute eye,
lidded pastel, overlooks
an undeniable reaching up
of privet stems
(Sir! Sir!),
enthusiasm,
quivering chaos.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
