Northern pintails brushing blue,
the crescendo of their wings,
weaving windsong into words
some say that, “Up jumped spring.”
The rising sun, through veils of dun,
atop a pool of glass
with flitting beams, does bend the streams
to cast a liquid brass.
Children fashion cradles,
and white whiskers out of string,
and fumble through foxed pages,
grazing grass on slowing swings.
Some, in a pensive mood do trace
the wisps that form the whale,
as froth stirs in a weightless sea
the poets long to sail.
And yet, despite the fluxing airs
that turn the tails to grey,
those perched below,
where quill pens crow,
will write of how they play.
Right Handed Rhymer: A.C. Johnson 