Outside the city,
the avaricious nature
of our fellow man,

fades into maudlin
memories, less real than folds
in a picnic cloth.

An old, white-haired man
whittles a wood-chip, pleased with
this halcyon day.

Vituperations
are forgotten, and grudges,
all extirpated.

Woken by the wind,
the subliminal voice of
the rustling branches

puts testiness and
irritability to
rest at long, long last.

The willow tree lists
towards the light, basking in
the refulgent sun.