The Steed of Turning

Went to the woods last summer
After a morning of light.
(Fog in the meadow.
Mist on a patch of lavender blooms.
With yellow buttercups in their sheen.)
Sat beneath a tree in the sun
One whose broad leaves did fall
And will re-bud for the call
Of the force this Spring:
About to mount its steed and ride
More anxious than the parade allows
In most season’s turning.
Was a breeze in that sacred space.
And soon the wind.