The springtime rises, ever green
gentle, blooming, beautiful, , ,

incomparably powerful. . .

a world that lay in dormant rest
shoots up again
to muddy-lush,
to make it seem as if all life
would ever move this strong and up
and flowerful. . .

And life that’s been
quite still and hidden,
but pummeled by the chilling rain and wind
may not all want

or even know
the way to reemerge,

And those that don’t
may move instead
to dry and shrink,
then float or soar
away from here–

even while
also henceforth
to our fleshy, watery, mortal eyes
entirely invisible

This entry was posted in Poetry, Seasons, Spring, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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