Is ‘the fine art of unhappiness’ truly
losing its allure?
–Denise Levertov
frost has melted away
from the edge of the paths
even as far as I can see
into the undergrowth new buds
sprout along bare branches
the wood does not care
where I stand for a moment
I am a minor note within
the cacophony pulsing each leaf
between which birds flit
and sing in strange harmony
each to each well beyond
any sigh I can muster
within some nostalgic reverie
before trudging home alone
(April 11, 2014)
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