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LEAVES OF THE MURAL BLEND
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BUT DAD, HE'S A POET
The leaves of the mural blend right in against the naked leaves of the tree. The traffic light is confused and offers no solution. The heat lamp need not be turned on when it’s 75 too early in the year. The hopes are beginning to return as we contemplate the beginning of Spring. Real leaves soon will decorate and adorn the lonely branches and the mural will fade from view as quickly as the drink dissipates from the plastic cup on the table. We keep waiting for the light to let us go. Rumor has it that summer is hovering on the horizon—and lordy we do need it.
