Light began in September to streak the slant.
Now it unseals in the spring, willfully singing the realm of separate design.
It picks up the speed of streaming recall
and takes us off post-equinox able to signify.

Or so I guess: Ninety is old, I
keep telling myself, so behave! And I’m older, 94. It is the look of happy
95, blue, grey though cold. It gives
a green expectation and I taste.