Out my springtime southwest window,
white pines rejoice in the
Wisconsin wind and
corroborate in a cabaret
of their own creation.
Some needle bunches sway side to side
like lovers interlaced in languid embrace.
Others bounce brusquely up and down
like children marching up an uneven hill.
Over there, clumps attract attention
with abrupt and fanciful flings.
And there! See them float like ladies’
slik scarves caught in a brisk breeze,
while bunches more circle like
a crazed conductor’s baton
in a flourish of major movement?
Outside my springtime southwest window
I am reminded of the marvel all about me—
Sometimes nouns are verbs!