wind
will
find a
source of dirt,
debris of autumn's
crumbling, toss it, wet, into the
path of what has been the consummation of our eye's
delight, the distant glowing of a
bright horizon line.
We grieve for
what we
fear
lost
we grouse
and shudder,
whine, but drear will lift
in time unfolding fresh-spread acts
of new seduction ripening in faint sun, fulfillment
of our winter wish for pleasure,
color spreading where
dull grey has
lain far
too
long