Morgan
Fruhling
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.
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