He is a fool
who, when the sky is lit
in the morning dew,
scowls at Spring
and shrugs.
She is immutable.
Brimming with chances
and hard won charm,
not a tremor in her voice.
She is singing.
Always singing
that honeysuckle song.
He is a fool
who misconstrues his gravity.
Ignorant of his orbit,
trying to tilt the world.
She is unruffled,
and he will roll off her back,
smooth as the mallard,
washing his face
in the sunrise pond.