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Poem

When crocuses first blazed beneath the trees 
as harbingers of warmth and light to come, 
I met you, and the curved continuum 
transported us beyond high summer's ease. 

Thanks be to God above that things rotate. 
The bloom is ruptured by late summer's breath: 
its seeds, in flying, validate its death. 
Our cycle is complete. The hour is late. 

Yet every night is scattered by a dawn, 
each fallen oak replenishes the soil. 
If life-in-death brings on us endless toil, 
the pains of birth and grief, I will not mourn. 

I know new shoots will strive up from dead ground, 
and love will flame again, though now snowbound.

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