Dew on early green.
Light on early dew.
Pup on shafting turf.
Lass on shafting pup.
Fog so dense over yesternight’s pool
made our streetlamp feel like London lofts before the war
amid the choking December wood.
But the predawn wind,
hateful are we of it most-times,
and dead is it thankfully now but for breeze,
shifted and fled in a moment
the damped webs in March when all things open,
and are given a good beating under noontime skies.
Banking swiftly from our abode,
the Heaven’s Lord, not yet done with His willful heir,
graced His rays upon my struggling plugs stabbed split-shod into sod only yesterday.
Halting, nay, ceasing the day in its thoughtless stride,
I placed my hand over little hers and,
squeezing those gentle fingers,
let fearful heart speak freely and without reserve:
Here is the arching peak of my happiness,
the impossible height my improbable joy.
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”