On the occasion of her retirement
--an abstract and strictly personal affair
performed most naturally with flair—
the Widow Wyile clothed herself
in polka dots
rang all her chimes
percussed some pots
took off her socks
and strode about the springy
spongy lawn with her arms
outstretched to the sky, her eyes
open wide and roving slowly
from side to side
her ears, too, busy drawing in the sounds
of the day: a cooing dove
the cawing code of passing crows
a distant plane high up, hidden in a cloud
the woosh of passing cars
sibilant murmur of slight wind
whisking and twisting in the pines
and the drip drip plip
of melting snow falling
from the eaves 

Now, the widow whispered to the trees
Now I am retired from the university
my Leaves are over, and as yours are budding
I am on course to transition
my position                 spring
into poetical projects and world changing works
in community and universery
to which the chickadees dee dee deed
the maple trees swayed and the mosses glowed
in a sudden shaft of sun 

Forthwith the widow plunged her toes
into the shrinking coverlet of snow
then quickly hopped and twirled about
her polka dot flounce
and in a flash she popped back inside
to stand her chilly grounded feet
upon the warm tiles of her hearth
And so the moment was marked
the next phase begun perfectly
on the April Fool’s dot
polka lot