Sunday, March 5, 2017


When the March wind
wounds will not abate
   and one felt in the dawn
that spring was near
in its shadows
    nature must twice
 surrender her reason
   and with it
a lake full of ice
   that the season will
make its free  poet's choice
to pardon
the locked up
       winter's harshness
that is reprobate
we suddenly hear
      a cardinal's waking
and flashing shrill voice
in the rock garden
full of saplings.

No comments:

Post a Comment