tosses off colors, swirling, a flutterance –
no thought of loss or want or farewell,
brilliance for a shilling or a dime or naught
gathering the colors up again to shrug them off,
twirling into the garden.
Come back! See!
The crows screech in the firs,
the raccoons sleep in the fennel
leaving the leaves tamped down,
smelling of licorice.
Silently, the crocuses raise their heads,
clumps of purple, thin leaves arching,
then, too soon, they fade into the soil.
The bird bath stutters in the wind and rain.
The waves lapping and overlapping,
casting off colors with abandon,
casting off the past,
casting off you.