power, backyard bucolic pink,
think I’ll slip into something
elemental, become new-shoot
and unassuming, like the pond’s
water shamrocks or this cling
of sporophytes by the porch.
Amaryllis stare like red giraffes,
listen to a bird’s wick-wick,
caddis fly’s plink, my courier
share of the common flicker
as the last sickle of sun fades
from the gold-lipped honey
lid.  Human metamorphosis
is slow so I drink more tea,
watch the vernal mix sink
to half-lit flux, the present
still in luck, living off
what’s left of earth’s
long green past while it can.