First Spring

Long grass, swaying

like a devout on sunday

bend down and carefully brush
The tired and sad from my face
Blissful amber stripes where the
Sun draped its gauzy arms

Across ribs, a silent zylophone plays

As the boule rolls into a deep blue
And a breathy breeze whispers
Stories drawn through like a rhythmic

song: waves of cloud accumulate
Too cool for words to float
Alongside the gathering gloam