New Season

No coats today. Buds bulge on chestnut trees,
And on the doorstep of a big, old house
A young man stands and plays his flute.

I watch the silver notes fly up
And circle in the blue sky above the traffic,
Travelling where they will.

And suddenly this paving-stone
Midway between my front door and the bus stop
Is a starting point.

From here I can go anywhere I choose.