All of glass shards in a rainbow spun to one
turned weepy chartreuse in burgundy spring
launched a desire for twisty cardboard flings
on bald white checkmate fields of winter sun
with celebrants in an orangery of yellow pollen
back bringing bliss, lifting the leafy skirt of then
into autumns when the sweaty milk pods fallen
call out pale memories of what might have been.
To fly and trail your legs the great blue heron way,
avoiding the twirly winds that rotate in silver haze,
follow the straight cord into the green leafy play
or never understood deep blue orbits out of phase.
This is only the life of seasons spinning tubular fast
in now a kaleidoscopic flash. Death? Oh yeah, that.