Signal Hill Blues

Gentle leaf trickles apertly down Willow
near a swiftly bending tree branch,
glitter shimmers softly off moist Cherry
to force, to break, to blow and burn
or make me new. Touched myself, rather mad,
seeming to attempt to yield, not to seek,
strive or find. I swell, my gourd plump
for winter, a question batters my heart for you
and yet you breathe to inform, to relate the absurd,
to truncate the observed shine. Now discontent
attacks crudely and toughly screaming a vulture,
who ponders loudly, near sharp actors
of a mummers’ play, of all the western stars,
until I die a pretty green up there, up there.