For a friend, because everything is fleeting and nothing is ever ours to have.
These fresh new days of lemon sun,
burgeoning with blossom,
the white froth of plum and pale cherry,
the hedgerows violet-damp,
smudged with blue muscari,
shadows of the sky,
the senses can only grasp so much.
These days of growing light
and stirrings in the earth and in the trees,
young hares ambling at the meadow’s edge,
of skies crissed and crossed by noisy bird streamers,
if I hold my breath,
I can almost catch the tail
of the firebird of bliss.