A Thursday

The sky today, a colorless canvas

behind mountain peaks,  achieves

a rare stillness, even green hues subdued,

wind absent, purple geranium petals

a drab display, bloodless ambiance,

indifference apparent just outside my door,

evidence of interior apathy.

I walk up to retrieve the newspaper,

pause to admire the oaks on the hillside,

nobility and strength of trunks revealed

by the removal of weedy dry grasses.

After the rebirth of the trees this spring,

the different varieties display

distinct color and shape of their leaves,

beauty of their rugged limbs.

Observing the circular curves

of white oak leaves, a refinement

from barbed tips of coast live oaks,

I recall the rising of the full moon

leaves like black paper cutouts

against the brilliant globe.

Along the rough trunks painted

with lichen in shades of pale jade

I find portraits and frescoes.

The grove becomes my muse

despite the blurred edges of morning.