Dawn returns blue foliage
to the riverbank, rippling leaves with light.
Think how the changeling seasons
have gone quick
and brown, and you want to say
wait; for moments they empty,
crack the sky, then an evening at dinner
you glance out again at their fingertip
Faint piccolo voices
of children back at play outdoors
meander between your thoughts,
and for an impulse you think
they are your own and look up
though the yard is empty.
You think of long-lived summers
of your school days, fat lives of sparrows
sputtering through winters that stretched
like drifts; how you lived each season's separate
life and between was such
and now this surge
into another spring of Indian summer
about to glaze with autumn's frost,
the lake's dream of ice already rising.