Later in April after fooling her
with the sunburn,
contrarily at the
Reds’ cheeky bombast. Ms. High Pink in lacey tilting stacked heels,
Espadrille or not, I run – do not stop me.
Sweet strawberry on lime lettuce by columbine
snow-threatened spring the patterns of
cotton Villagers patterned
first in heathers of ‘64, then
hot shades by ’68. Little flowers
for girls learning. No clashing, not yet.
Sun’s up over wind as the rush of cool
from the Floyd plateau
bends buds, clips corner’s tree.
Ms. High Pink shivers
toes touch the lip of dew,
she blinks, and with a
quick inward turn of ankle
in a stylish spring frock, whistling merrily
The Rule to wear White.