The little wooden man
With his little spring joints
Stands by the broken window
Ample with emotion
His posture is majestic
His stance is dramatic
His gestures are pleading me
To take notice of the rain
He tilts his faceless head
Inquisitive to the twittering drops
His arm extended to embrace
the filtered grey light
He likes to ask himself deeply
The meaning of springtime, Joyful
he concludes, "You are the subject
Of this beautiful Nature."
Shadowed on the vast deskscape
He serenades the green and birds
Trailing off into silence and
Lost thought, vacant.
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