Poetry

Now is the time to come--
and the tree, swept clean
of purple, hosed
into the gutter, like after-the-wedding
confetti, stands merely green.

But, what green!
Overnight, the busy painter, not loath,
(for Nature abhoreth a vacuum) 
tints each leaf with
gold betokening growth.

We tilt back brims--
to an ancient song
coin novel words;
marvel how the times, again,
return and returning, move along.