My Lady’s Aubade

There’s little tremor in the backyard trees;
November doing what November knows,
I dream and then wake up, and then I sneeze.

While dawn’s white body unravels from its ease
A thought should be as natural as a rose:
There’s little tremor in the backyard trees

Reading from their own anthologies,
Leaf after leaf. Lately comatose,
I dreamt, and now wake up, and now I sneeze.

Doubt can arrive in pomps and panoplies,
High as a parrot or as crude as crows.
But little tremor shakes the backyard trees.

Awareness dominates the mysteries
Every night. Puck flits by on his toes
While I dream. And then wake up. And then I sneeze

Wishing the pollen cancelled by disease
And all spring’s poetry rolled back to prose,
I dream and then wake up, and then I sneeze.
There’s not much tremor in the backyard trees.

 

 

 

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