by gerbil

Spring

Flowers with faces like pansies
squint at the sun near my mailbox
with indisputable mirth and irony.
The trees, still bare of leaves,
perform pliés and tour jetés.
Some reach to the sky
in vernal prayer.
The forsythia roil the air
with bright madness—makes
me want to sing and shout.

Summer

Dreamers loaf on the city green,
intoxicated by the sun—
reading, dozing,
even composing poetry.
Lovers lie on blankets,
bodies touching lightly,
while old men play chess
and feed the restive pigeons.
Girlfriends at a picnic table
laugh raucously, smoke
cigarettes, eat Chinese food
from plastic containers,
wave their hips to music.
A violinist, case open for
donations, plays Vivaldi.
I think I see Walt Whitman
by the fountain.

Autumn

The wind flings golden leaves
across the blacktop—
a sovereign tossing coins
to a throng of beggars,
crumbling matter converted
to currency by nature,
a final shimmering.

Winter

In French they call it hiver,
one letter short of shiver.
Naked branches with witches fingers
point in every direction, howling  j'accuse!
The burning bushes, round and red,
sass the season as the snow rolls in.
Like small furry mammals
with caches of acorns, we sleep.

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