The colour of limes, cooling in shade,
appears, seemingly as watched,
to feather the venous cradle
of branchlets with downy leaves,
that hint of suede, and curl up or back
when buffeted by winds of late spring.
Some flashing their modesty, their underside,
while others part gently,
like a child’s hair being combed by
a doting mother,
startling the sparrows and finches
about their work within,
who are rendered
briefly quiescent, until
the lunge and parry
of their beaks returns.