The power of prediction
no longer resides
in mystical lands
The art of contradiction
where truth often hides
with red hands
One guess is good
a stab in the dark
betting it all on black
the sun will be back
tomorrow
Then there are facts
seasons in tidy groups
Again with the loitering Indians
of Summer
We map the lines
plot blocks of time
to build with, tiny day squares
not one cloud cares
What month is it now
Does the sky show us how
Where to get where we
should be by now
A stampede of March storms in
lions guard the gate
unable to keep the thunder and rain
high and away
Moody March cedes to the Sun
with a Spring in her step
Leo moves over after having his
pray fun
Bleating lambs in cowardly shear
flocked in wool coats
Bah-hing about the verdant green grass
over there
Aprils cup is too full
Slushing, spilling about into stream
slurping the porous sky
Is there a pattern
Do you see one
Is it almost summer
Even the water moves
the matador toward Taurus
trapped in the ring, circle, cycle
of seasonal bull.
Feature image by By Desptop (Own work), Macedonian Lion [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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