Bumblebees making love or war
On an Easter Sunday morn'
Spritely fairies in pinkish frills
Wearing their patent leather buckles
Little boy blues in powder blue suits
Running amok in the chapel belfry
Sanctuary dressed in lavender hues
As the ***** sounds the call to worship

Laces snake through sneaker eyelets
As shuffling rubber squeaks anew
An impressionist blur of mottled colors
Shuttle end to end with fury true

Like a scene from Doctor Zhivago
Silent snowfall glides on the wind
Settling amongst its fallen brethren

A landscape painted in reverse
Each flake a dab of pigment erased
Till a clean white canvas emerges

A well-groomed stranger walks an unfamiliar path
He breathes deeply of the cool, damp air mixed with the musk of mud
Filaments of sunlight filter through rapidly denuding branches
As his troubled mind turns to the day’s solemn occasion

Waffled glass
Resting on a rustic oaken desk
Half-filled with the powdered sweetness
Of dappled peppermint

The old man of the yard, the sage
Wind-burnt and callused
Gnarled limbs, intertwined fingers
Like capillaries ripe for bursting
With a harvest of simple blooms‏