The gingko again, new leaves faint
at the edges, a hesitating green,
tempered ebullience,
middle spring. What is inside
is petrified, a relic, scared,
and sacred. All weekend long,
a promised rain
that never really arrived, and so
it goes, the hour, the day,
half-measured, half-guessed at–
an imprecise heart
can still feel exacting.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Lovely.
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Thank you, crow!!
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Ah, your characteristic quietness again, the last two lines remind me of a sonnet in resonance and I like your internal rhymes. Long time dear C!
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I know! So glad you are still stopping by– thank you!!
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