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A zone of promise throbs along
the horizon where May meets June.
Sweet leaf or sap smells: conversations
renewed between trees now
so graceful in their drapery of green
you’d never guess how lately they have taken
it from winter storage and have shaken
it out and put it on.

A similar illusion
persuades me that the park has always been
luxuriant and feathery as now.
Children have always caromed to and fro.
River and sky were always steeped in just this glow.
There was never snow.