When an admirer of James McNeill Whistler told him a woman had remarked on her early morning walk about how closely nature came to some of his evocative canvases, Whistler was exultant. "Ah!" he said. "So nature is catching up!"
The type of morning
that spent an hour or so in bed
before deciding to be brilliant.
A haze of indecision burnt off
by a blaze of gold
playing one-upmanship with the breeze.
Walks become therapy not function.
Muscles not used since Christmas
play origami, folding smiles
out of winter-creased faces.
Look closely and you’ll notice
cares, worries, the occasional burden
caught high on budding branches,
flying at full mast
like witch’s knickers.
Another cycle of seasons,
one more circuit of the sun,
a reminder of the need
to stop, be thankful and breathe.