Later

An acorn drops from the apex of some tree
And it falls on the soft branches
Still light from spring.
The leaves still have their fuzz,
Invisible but there, like the hair on my temples,
Like a hiding peach.
The spring was so late the ducks haven't grown
They're small like marbles, rolling on the waves,
Smoothing their feathers with oil as they shake their bills.
The weeds greet and sprawl across the surface
Sleeping on the tops like sinewy lilies.
I'll write this all in later.
The balls of my feet heat up over the hill
And as I walk upwards I can see over the bridge
The clouds, polished smooth from the wind,
Glassy almost, preened for a perfect moment.
And I'll write this all in later
Unless I've forgotten.