Aug 122011
Unscreened weatherworn
the doorjamb melts
into what I remember
was our private yard:
the flowers on the tree
(some red, some white)
have blossomed into leaves
sung green.

The chickadees
twitch among trunks
searching for pebbles.
The young birds eat them up
and eat whatever else they find
which pleases them.
--By some hidden wind
they ruffle to walls
in the usual hollows together
with a few early leaves.

Yellow and sun-white predominate.
These are the colors
of fullness and wait. --But
somehow my shrill eyes
are missing you among
        August sways on
the stem because it is warm
as flowers go.

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