Beneath a Barlett pear
Upright in its spring candor
A judgmatic plum grows
Grasping upward with spread fingers
Delicately dotted warm pink

Birdsong garlands the empty spaces
Of the yard as the afternoon
Sunlight stretches to retain
Its ubiquitous gloze

I sit on the edge
Of the yard–in it but
Not fully of it–wearing
No bridal garment

My clothing accuses me:
Black shirt, grey pants
Black socks and shoes, a
Chromatic color amiss:
But my eyes are blue

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