Day 512 of the daily new poems. Our poet Colin Pink looks up at a breezy Spring morning.
Spring breeze
The breeze clatters on the leaves
like typewriter keys, drafting a memo
that spins me around, newly unbound
from cares that bent my head down.
Now I am summoned to look up, awake
to the graceful dance of the seasons;
a quadrille whose stealthy steps express
all I know of time and joy and reason.
The clouds are dancing, breaking up
and reforming, and they are just clouds
not portends, not metaphors for something
gathering below the horizon. They care not
where the rain lands, think not of the future,
but drench and nurture with an even hand.
I look up again and they’re gone. What seems
permanent just a different degree of temporary.
Colin Pink