Delight

This morning I heard the first golden oriole of the year. Last year it was the 18th, year before the 17th. Regular as clockwork. Delight sums them up perfectly. For NaPoWriMo

Delight

in the sound
of the wind
in the trees
and mornings
of butter-light
over the field,

the scent of the roses
that bloom by the wall,
lizard-run,
bird-dabbing,
vines in the sun,

and the first ringing
woodwind
of oriole’s song
from the top
of his poplar
down by the stream.

The oboed,
the mellow-rich,
deep-golden sound,

melliflutes winter’s rout,
return of the sun,
buttercupped,
tansied
till summer
is done.