Wednesday, April 17, 2013

V. 2, #21: April 17, 2013

The honeysuckle waves its sinuous strands
at me, so near it almost seems to mock
my separation--like it understands
the glass between us, solid as a lock.

The branches of the oak tree softly sway
just inches from my face, bedeviling me;
and on its arms the squirrels bark and play
oblivious to all my jealousy.

It's cruel, almost, to let the sunshine flow
through windows that don't open, by design;
to torture office denizens who know
how near fresh air and Spring are, and how fine;

A few more hours to go till our release;
till then, you Lords of Nature, give us peace.


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