later, on a May mornng

1
come May
it is still morning late

the trees have
by now
been shaken like private rainclouds on their tether trunks

birds as black as boughs
look through their flight-pecked feathers
cackle their calls

can such sharp, sharp eyes
know nothing of death
except the watchfulness of sky?

2
in the angle of late morning dandelion bloom
innocent as the wrong word

why does the soil so love them
what is their pact?

3
spent lilacs un-boughed have fallen
onto the deck's softened
grey surface
introjected by rains as a soul by themes, movements
of forgotten symphonies,
as a sepal sheath
unaware
of the billow of its own late fragrant flower
just now
strewn along the latest slap of blue.