An Ode to a Hartford Seer

Listen. Already, in spring's silence,   
We hear sparklers, running across lawns     
And through half-deserted streets,
 
Embodying a spirit of verdigris     
Which embellishes, however faintly,     
Both equinox and solstice—
 
A vestige light, meant to reassert     
The predominance of spruce-needles,     
Against oncoming dusk.
 
But, if such muses seldom attend,     
Like quiet supplicants upon our stage,
And less frequently invoke
 
A grey-bearded oracle, straddling       
The distant, rolling waves off Paumanok—     
Instead, we may entrust ourselves,
 
As candles exist, without flame,   
But as flame cannot exist, without air.  
As the insurance man, waiting
 
Until someone brews more coffee,      
Will continue seeking the impassioned      
And redeemable phrase.