How long ago- I find me
kicking color through morning’s first blush;
eyes wide to playful glance.
Searing sight, bonfire bright,
the flush of ardor’s first flame?
Now gone, the leas of summer seem
the leaves of April dreams-
Descending pave the ground in pools,
of beiges, browns and fools.
Silver Pines who look within
and ring another year.
Forebear the whine of petulant breeze
‘round widths of maturing trees
Repentant stride in restless season
send leaves in gouts aloft-
a-sail upon an august breath
before they turn to fall.