Sunday, May 4, 2014


These trees move much too quickly
Like thieves in the night
When the leaf vale finally flows

A softness far too perfect
To ever compensate
For the hard-luck lock-down winter
Where all was lost, all forsaken

This new thing at the gate
Has no pain left but the future
It must, like a spring, await

1 comment:

the walking man said...

I have hazy recollections of that thing called spring. Right now it seems as if it belonged in a different era, a generation forgotten. *sigh* maybe when the ice is gone from the Great Lakes we'll have some kind of glove less summer.