Birches with peeling bark
root with certainty in the spring soil
while the ifs
of the inorganic world outshine
the quiet, sun-soaked solitude.
Stretching on a lazy rock,
I manufacture thoughts and watch them
roam like hawks, settling
now and then on rabbits, mice,
the occasional thesis.
A balmy spring wind flaps
the empty pages of an untold tale
like parade flags waving at bystanders.
If I stay long enough
the paper will yellow and parch,
and if the wind stops, my eyes
will ambush the conclusion.