Late February

This day light see-saws,
shift­ing cool-cen­tered pearl
to sil­ver.
This day,
warm orange
etch­es shad­ows
over the bloom­ing stone.

on 94th street;
tough city sycamores
con­sid­er buds,
and the black cramp­ing arc
of win­ter’s haggishness.

Root­ed in rivers
the mild and cra­nial sky
grows large,
lifts edge to cen­ter,
embraces the silent cir­rus lig­a­tures
that mir­ror the cold crack­ing
of the riv­er noon. 

The sky just blows away.

Far down the block,
Peter, my friend,
Stands,
head tipped toward the rooves,
to the fine brawl­ing song
cas­cad­ing down
of spar­rows in the eaves.