we are having January
and July
this May.
North and West, in the mountains,
snow.
And today, here,
wild summer storms
thunder, sheets of rain…
Surely Potomac
will flood her banks,
Farewell to blossoms;
dogwood, apple, cherry…

Yet, yesterday,
a shorts and tank top
run in hot sun,
the day before
gusts of wild winds,
my kite aloft to the last turn
of the spool,
clouds gliding between
that fine nylon rainbow
and me.
How strange, this wrong time
wrong weather, but, then,
How normal is the weird in life.
Truly, who would expect calm
when chaos is the order of things

So, I,
on that fine long run,
stopped,
looked at newborn natures
Technicolor display and, asked,
“I wonder how I’ll die?”

with neither morbid motive
nor hollow fear
was that new birth time
Death question asked.
Rather with an honest itch,
a curiosity about the manner
in which
my contribution to
the scheme of things
will cease.