Two dandelions in January. Yay!
They're burly, squat and pretty much unruffled
by the mean wind - animates anything it can:
"Dance!" it says and, "Sing good too my whoo!"
Points its big blunderbluss at all and sundry.
Sun's men the dandelions, though,
and he is out to show
the wild west wind he cain't have all his wuther-druthers,
that his true use is to blow
little cumuli who sky-graze on their trail.
For night-cloud blankets, rain and so much daily sun
have woken those opportunists
very desirous to be about and doing.
..................
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-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...
