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 hidden,
and pummeled by the wind and cold and rain
may not all want or know
the way to reemerge,

but moves 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 and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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