Poor rhododendrons
Don't understand the whiteness
On them or the ground.
It's April 19
(January one hundred and ninth);
Is Fall tomorrow?
Some snow has settled
Like whitened musical notes
On the wire fence.
Again the field is white;
Again the dripping snow trees
Again the hope of Spring.
With an ice blanket
Green buds journey continues;
They know it's Springtime.
Clear drops of water
Hanging next to the ice and snow
This muddled season.
Rain drops in the pond
Radiate ever outward,
Breaking on the bank.
Like a coiled white snake:
Long piece of pipe in the field
(Will strike at nothing.)
No comments:
Post a Comment