LISTENING TO VIVALDI'S "SEASONS"

The red haired priest
of the Fall gloria
may be gone but his music falls
on the foliage of Umbria's hills
lighting the whispers
whirring to burst in sunlight
of planted bulbs
with the harvest in play.

Awaiting winter
always an exile
with a refuge for a friend
in a barter for warmth
toward the year's ending
in an impromptu moment
of the smallest town's survivor.

Spring is attentive
outside us
tasting the coolness
of a peach
all trees leafed
and carved with rain
into the roof with violins
hearing a wilderness of notes.

Summer fools us
as if we lost our way
homesick for house greens
or together on back porches
where the old perspire
unreported
and the youngest dream aloud.