From where I sit
the red maple
is in front of the dogwood —
red in front of white.

At times there is no wind
and then enough
to rustle  leaves
and then enough
to sway the branches.

It is then
that that maple
makes brush strokes
across the dogwood’s blossoms
and I am entertained
with one of  many shows
that’s offered by the spring.

This entry was posted in Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply