A terse breeze sways them,
waxen white trinity
of outer petals deployed ,
that little trumpet mouths
point (bombsight) groundwards
from stalks' slender tapers.
Tirelessly the wind
through willow wands
utters digressive passages,
a day, a decade, an era -
if not these trees, other trees
resonate a long-muttered,
a slow-moaned story.
Primrose, periwinkle,
the odd daisy pushed gladly up
between encroaching moss
keep such a low profile
they have no need of
that kind of language
catkins jiggle vaudeville,
hardly trembling
by bone-white
dancers of dead grasses.
Existential - a robin
sublimes into rarefactions.
