Spring follows the moon’s crystal night. Crocus crawl from the cold blue dark like a child’s yellow baubles
Summer bees buzz and the honeysuckle high chases the tail of August, like a flock of starlings, across the blistered sky.
Fall ripe persimmons that dangerous fruit; mallards take wing before the gavel falls— ragged writing points south.
Winter, the wandering jester, taunts mad angels, their wounds bound with birch bark. Limber the bow of ash; leave me to myself.
