Tuesday, May 19, 2020

It is Still. . .


It is still winter for us.
Though the leaves spread and the buds swell,
Though the soil warms and the birds build
Nurseries, and the frogs rest from their spawning.
Our buds are still closed, our branches bare,
As we wait for the benediction of release:
The sweet summer, the easy summer,
Gathered on the grass as careless as the dandelions.