Not yet

The Oracle gave me a cadralor this morning, but I’m posting this short poem instead, a sort of condensation, to use the dreaded ‘s’ word she always shoves at me, although it’s a pretty elliptical allusion.

Not yet

There are buds on the roses still to open
and birds still singing songs to hopeful nests.
The year squirms like a fat worm
among the leaf litter,
and a million hearts still beat
high as summer.