Regular Ruffles Poem by Douglas Scotney

For a while in Fall
I would call myself that;
now you can too,
for a while.

I did not exactly
set up post,
as I said in a poem
a poet in Japan does,
while it's still quite cold,
down by the paulownia tree,
waiting for the first sign of Spring.

I did regularly ruffle though,
the shiny purple leaves of the aeonium,
anticipating
that more grubs would be found
(well, caterpillars)
and crushed between finger and thumb
or finger or thumb and ground.