| |
For Joann Grisetti
For us, it comes without prodding
The rain from the summer sky of yester year
We who have climbed the hill
To see the broken fence
And the land no longer green like before
For us, a tear comes easily
Like a stranger who is familiar, and yet unsure'
What should we have taken from it
What should we have done right again
What was all that promise we called spring
O Joann, in every season there is always rain
But the seeds, let not the tears touch their soul
Copyright ©
David Smalling
|