Spring Breakage
Who knows how much breakage
Or when it will happen.
Not the lover who is trying not to lose,
Nor the watchful blackbird warming her eggs.
Yet the worm cracks loose
And the running stream has broken
Its icy shackles.
In this warming green light,
How shall I describe that which crumbles
When broken into words?
Then out they come:
Sudden dogwood flashes in dark woods;
A thousand yellow roses arching a window;
Boulevard cherry pink showers,
And gardens where azaleas are on fire.
And her in the silent greenery,
Young and alone,
Bewildered by a blossoming sadness-
Should she be included?
Copyright © David Colquhoun | Year Posted 2014
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