Yes, the world whispers in watercolor sighs
through lemon-lime tree tops and songbirds in flight, 
through apricot patchwork and tangerine glow, 
she softly persuades me I’ve nowhere to go.

I bow to her whimsy, take shade-sprinkled paths,
leave briefcase discarded and footwear off-cast
take dappled indulgences, sun-skittled treats,
while light couples shadow, I follow the beats

of finches’ wings and bold insect song, 
of cobbled trail and moss-laden lawn,
‘til a whisper of Wordsworth I feel at my ear,
melancholy Keats through the brush of a tear.
Shelley’s sublime catches fire in my rib,
but mostly its Oliver’s procreant crib 

that justly uproots me
	with riotous sound
		head spinning, knock-kneed
	I’m lost, then I’m found 
 by wind in the willows,
	birds whistling spondee,  
	 	fuzz-bodied pollen thieves 
	 humming off-key
tickling each stamen in	
	ramshackle weeds,
		staining, sustaining
	life down on their knees.
each citrus sweet moment,
	kaleidoscope framed, 
		now central components		
	fused deep in my brain
for when the time comes –
	when from depths I will plumb
		the sensory memories
	now blooming in me
the pigments of poetry
	stirring inside	
		straining, complaining
 	to bring them to life.