Dawn Is Not Yet Rested

Dawn is not yet rested upon the tree tops. The ancient night of our souls lingers protracted in the adamantine winter. Dew buds are unmelted; the road is swallowed up by dark. Yet this time above all others is Apollo’s, for he returns! Even now he grips the horizon with strong hands, dragging it back a great distance. The morning shouts of brumal crows are gladdened. A blur of purple spreads into violet efflorescence. Birds wheeling high above like fine specks first see his new chariot. Our souls long drear are new lit by his arrival. Hope springs anew. Chickadees sing their spring song in warming rays!