A gardener reminisces.

A long-ago morning,  bright but biting cold,

I forked a client's border.  A sheen of frost

had silenced the robins,  silvered the cobwebs and glossed

a gorgeous Norway Maple's veils of gold.

One by one she dropped her leaves and tossed

playfully some of the sparkliest at my head,

laid the rest around me as a bed

and unabashed lolled leafless,  reticence lost,

so flagrant in her nakedness,  so slim

and smooth that I,  neglectful of my duty

stood rigid,  gazing on her slender limbs.

But seldom may I savour days like these:

my boss,  a man with no regard for beauty, 

barked: "You don't get paid to gawp at trees!"