He lived up
on a flagpole.
He liked it
for the view.
It lent him sweet
perspective
to see and join
the blue
warm sky in
Spring.
Except it
wasn’t Spring.
The sky was blue
but cold.
Not the day,
one might well
say, to be flagpoled.
But there he
was
and there he’d
be:
beautifully adapting
to inconstancy,
thick limbs,
all serpentine
and gold.
He didn’t
mind the cold pole’s
sway. He’d wait for May.
.
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