What Comes Again

after “Sonnet 73,” by William Shakespeare That time of thaw thou mayst in me perceive, When brittle ice lets go the buried root, And greening buds, too shy to disbelieve, Begin again in silence, soft and mute. I am not fire consumed by fading coals, Nor yellowed boughs that rattle in retreat— But breath returning gently to the roles Of things once paused by winter’s slow defeat. Yet even spring is edged by memory— The ache of knowing frost has touched me once, And will again; though now the lilac tree Blooms brighter for its brush with absence. So love me not as if I’ll always stay— But hold me as the blossom holds the day.