Curb your expectations
As here is a still moment
On an ordinary wont,
Silent, unexceptional,
Blissfully insignificant,
A specific category of sublime,
Not a Delacroix Massacre,
But a Chopin Nocturne,
An impending winter,
The sky a gray slate,
Dolorously snow gorged,
The reticent distance
Of that Friedrich canvas.
Daisies, clover, goldenrod,
Wild rose and raspberry briars,
Yellow, violet and viridian,
The hues of summer
Accepting their finality,
Give way to hoarfrost,
Tediously brown variations.
Reluctantly we are pressed
Into umber, ochre, tan,
Occasionally bronze or copper.
With a discerning eye,
Desperate, we hope for
Russet, sorrel, or roan.
We pine for alizarin.
The songbirds fled,
Finches, swallows, martins
On South American sojourns,
Unavailable to upstage.
Everywhere the drab
Sparrows are delighted,
Still cheep in whispers
Unaccustomed to hearing
Their own small voices.
The peculiar woodpecker
Is the only crimson
Though much too brash
For this still moment.
