Waylaid

You waylaid me

When I was determined,

With boots and walking stick,

To trek into the ravine,

A sober, brackish crevasse

Down Old Woman Creek.

But you, your hues against

Blue, an enticing brilliance

In the morning light,

Thwarted my intention.

Your sensible summer viridians

Absent, you got me drunk,

An inevitable debauchery.

On yellow, crimson, saffron

And that leathery bronze

And alizarin of the oak.

Presumption

The blackbird scolds me,

A torrent of abuse from

High above in the willow.

Furious over my very presence,

She imagines the worst in me

(This is becoming tiresome.)

Presumes an evil agenda,

A scheme on her lovely eggs,

Her nest in the bulrushes.

When I look up to reassure,

To list honorable intentions,

To even express disinterest,

I notice, just past her wings,

The moon, transparent in the

Morning sun, undeniably

Virtuous against blue.

I am grateful for the coincidence

“Oh, there you are!”

And offer a genial introduction.

My appeal to the blackbird

Is the moon will vouch for me.

We’ve been acquaintances,

Maybe pals, for some time now.