We all have flakes of red in our hair.
It's almost noon. Not quite, yet.
The east-side of the library shines.
And they dance their usual step;
they glide with utter eloquence
in the chilled-but-radiant air.
These days, they're gold. Honeycombs
that turn a little day by day
with specks of red in their hair.
They are free from perfection--every one
Masters of colors, no doubt. They have
seen and duplicated several this month.
And they dance. They twirl! I long to be
that brave. Plunging towards the earth!
The red stand out; the gold do shine
when the sun creeps past the clouds and hour.
I wonder if I ever could.
I wonder if I'll ever have
the kind of faith to glow, then dive.
I wonder which color possesses me,
or if I'll always be watching them dance.