Four Poems: Telluride Suite, Seasons at 8750
Eager to play, spring bumbles in
like a dizzy bee
dazed by yellow exuberance
wondering which tree, which stem,
which blade of new grass to next visit.
Whirrrrr-whoosh hustles in the first hummingbird,
whip-stridently flirting with petal-some red,
sweet hussy of fling,
flippant rush of a thing,
yes! then tides of wings gather
to jostle for nectar,
warm air wears their buzz like a hymn.
And what could be better than today to remember
that we, too, are found in the rush,
this daily detour toward sweetness and thrill,
this unpredictable swerve of a path on which
evening enters on gray glimmer of wing so bright
that even the shadows are listening.