Bud

Bud, like branch
as if small, or gone far,
to what might you bloom?
A rose prim, or buxom?
A spearing new-minted finial fine
in green iron cast, your tender tendril
to wind against wind
up railing, perhaps,
or soil-grounded for brick’s brace
in your bed, instead.

Feet away

My reliable dancers
trot me from cobble to flag
nimble, now, from flinty heart
now purposeful to paved-in paths
and aside-stepping
in deferent courtesy – leave
histories’ halls behind
to melancholic ponder at seat
to crow-caw chorusing
closing
calm, now chilled