Dazzle down from indigo;
tan my brows, as the cold breeze weathers them.
These garden greens take up your gold,
inherent with its fierce largesse,
lanterned translucencies -
or glabrous mirrors
set in interstitial darkness
as in their interstellar midnight, stars shine noon.
We cannot see light voyaging; its arrivals are blazoned
(pastel on the afternoon moon).
Shadows sculptured by the interposed
in this steeped garden stand as twinned
with banners of light
within the monochrome of a green gamut
broken by a scattering of Louis d'or
sun-king dandelions.
One other player -
the engine of the air you fuel and fire,
here in the least of all its vestments -
this little, bitter breeze is jabbing wintry.
Dogs and birds, so unaccustomed of late
to a glaring clarity of sky, fall silent
but for a twit or two.
Doors down
a baby burbles, 'Da-da-da.'
Only swashes
of Saturday traffic perpetuate their isolation,
securely blinkered within steely necessities.
