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.