Beneath benign

shadow blankets

smothering core of self

in doubt

(–these deadened slate gray skies of lead that murk the quirks of living depth–)

belong multifarious

steely feels of rounded things in sync

left out:

Glowless polychromic thoughts

of alignment Timeless in their


prodding hopes reality

still will shout

the words that ring

in truthful sing

all what-if songs to

tout in Spring.

Like Happy patch of

brightwet grass surprising eyes with

emerald green

The way the snow sootstained retreats

in melt to full reveal

selfsame patch of waterbright grass surprising eyes with heal of feel.

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