almost up against yet leaning away
from the pine tree that is not inside a
half moon of lawn that peeks but does not
grin, it's color refusing to be named. angel
boy toddles free from maternal hands across
the white striped crosswalk, snug inside
his lime green sweater, adorned with
marshmallow chicadees. blossoming in
circles, the blooming has us surrounded,
but someone forgot to tell the petulant sky,
still sulking above. i opened my door to
the aftermath of its early morning tantrum.
a bald head appears in the window, cradled
in the pine tree's branches. a pink fist precisely
strokes, with a barber's professional care,
a tender wing of ash. jacket zipped, i exit
with arms raised into a torrent of sad.
No comments:
Post a Comment