It's not enough to call it spring
When it has a thousand other names
Redemption is one and suffering
The glad tulip saddled with snow
The glorious forsythia celebrating
Alone on an empty farm
A testing of souls where a drop
Is weighed and none are found wanting
Rain you could say or a horsey sky
Or a self shivering on stones in the sun
Down by the overflowing stream
I found a drift of bluebells once
And dug them up and took them home
Where they cheerfully bloomed and died
No comments:
Post a Comment