Honey doesn’t grow on trees, or the silver
shimmer of your girlfriend’s new panties,
subtle though it is, lovely and brand new.
I look at it this way. Can you fly? Can you
turn your elbows into wings and make up
into the clouds, leave your haters to dust?
Do dogs try idly to bite you at the edges
of hot picnics where time slows to a drip?
In one month and a half, the long northern
winter will depart. All will be golden & truth.