A man stood still at the edge of the curb,
head curved down, back quivering.
He gazed out over his rag-tag boots
with their dusty laces, ends so frayed
giggling ripples, a tremor
at the dandelions that pushed
with riotous, orange glory
through the crusted pavement
all along the side of the road.
Cars sped by, and trucks, ten wheels
spitting gravel with the viciousness
of angry serpents, rubber skins
black-treaded, steaming a hiss
with the new-found heat
of spring‘s reborn gold sun.
So he stood, that man in his well-scuffed boots,
face round and red as the second
full moon of autumn, giggling waves
while the delinquent tassled blooms
exhaled their innocently golden breath
pure and sweet as the bees’ first treasure
over the rising grey dust of spring.
April 10, 2010