The seasons are turning. There is waiting for buds to appear
like bullets in revolver drums while staring at the April swayed
stop light and the green that can't come soon enough.
The wind wets its finger and slides it down the back of pants
too thin and, in a change of direction, whips them tight to
highlight "too cold to work out today" chicken legs.
It is, after all, still winter, though the snow is going. Up
the sloping street, leaves whip like flecks of corn syrup
pressed along a 66 thousand mile-an-hour windshield.
Confronted by Autumn's collected fall in an afternoon cold
enough to rival any of the previous year, discomfort comes
loose and lost like oil charred and whisked with wire brush.
Memory falls and parts in the water, tang, and pluck of
dun whipped air, smacked and busting with the bitters of
summer's lives and glories out of season and stilled and lush.
The street corner, a snow globe. Wrapped tight in scarf
and raptured before the light changes and returns eyes to
the gray curb and tasks at hand. The seasons are turning.
