SPRING IN WASAGA
warm on my face, glaring off the pages of my book, casting artful shadows on the greening grass.
tweet songs from bare old maple tree.
fresh and gentle, kisses my neck;
demands slow, deep, restorative breaths;
lifts wisps of my hair in a dance.
Lazy drone of small private plane, skims thro’ azure sky,
not a cloud in sight.
Winter is only a memory.