Tomorrow, remembrance of dad’s passing;
this morning, the sunlight streaming across the
gingko leaves loosens the frost’s hold to
free them from their branches.
My delight in the choreography
composed of still air, gravity and wet leaves
draws me to abandon my cup
to stand amidst the dancers.
Stems aloft, maidenhair leaves twirling
a last turn slap the memory bricks which
march to surround the fountain.
Once adorned by a dancing iron maiden,
long removed, the fountain
now adores the gingko
with its summer water show..
The spinners on their pointed stems
plumb swiftly to
rustle in the grass.
Begowned waltzers sashay to
the end of their festival dance.
There are kamikazes, divers who glide from
uppermost branches to lay beats
on the taut Winter fountain cover.
The path and grass subside
under massing soft, wet, golden petals.
The sun shimmers on the faint cirrus in the blued lead sky. A few leaves yet wait for tomorrow. I make roses from littered petals 'til I notice the waiting buds plaiting troth to the husbandry of spring.
rhm, 12 12 2019, revised 6 9 2020