that winter was one of walking
of stalking the sunset’s glow
to the western road and then
watching the fire fade from the treetops
before shrugging home in the dusk
there were silent laps around the park
in warm rain and fine snow
and in the mornings thick frost that
flocked every blade of grass
and set it sparkling in the pale light
then, slowly, winter walked its way into spring
and the fuzzy-budded branches
of the trees along the path
burst into blossoms of cream and pink
and palest, delicatest green —
every year it is the same
yet every wander brings new wonders
