Ungrounded,
caught in the spring recoming.
Above, the thin veils of cloud tear in the broken sun,
wisps of playful cirrus are thermal-dancing.
Laughter of children
is like the sweet chorus of evening birds
who circle us, protective:
their harmony interrupted only
by the caw of a lone crow far away in some less-splendid place.
From the past, these words return;
as a memory of lost friends draws a poignant smile
and shiver in the shade.
We have no box of poetry
but here I hold its contents in my disbelieving hands
and their perfumes intoxicate.
