thoughts on a day, late in spring.

whatever I think

becomes what I do

yet those things which I wish

never come true.

the sun on this morning

lies bright on the faces

of quiet housefronts,

with trees in their spaces

whatever I feel, now,

it fades away fast

those things which I knew

became part of the past

the birds on this evening

flit from trees, like black netting

their clear throated callings

meet the sun, near to setting.