Click Page 22

Poetry of Issue #8        Page 22


Now is the time to come,

and the tree, swept clean

of blossoms, hosed

into the gutter, like after-the-wedding

confetti, stands merely green.

But what green!

Overnight, the busy painter, not loath,

(for Nature abhoreth a vacuum)

tints each leaf with

gold betokening growth.

We shove back brims—

to an ancient song

coin novel words;

marvel how the times return

and returning, move along.

R. Dickerson