I Have Little to Say
I have little to say
as an avalanche of maple
spills over the back fence
and water weighted branches,
heavy with the perfume of rain,
bow and bend
in a slight breeze
and the dry throats of hollyhocks
are quenched and dribble
an excess down
stems that yesterday
stooped and wilted
under a hot sun.
And what can I say
as a profusion of green glistens
in the early morning light
and leaves wear a fresh glaze
in the cool air. How everything
has changed, gorged now
on an infusion of wet
as I walk under the trees,
daubed and dabbed
with rainwater, feeling
the sweet damp of a joy
left here as it was
passing through
late last night and now
whatever I could say
would not be enough.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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