AddThis Social Bookmark Button

Poem: 4.16.07


mourning doves wooed us at dusk.

warm weather early this year,

our pear trees and dogwoods

had blossomed too soon. jonquils

bristled in auspicious clusters.

even the stateliest branches

teased us with touches of color.


such delicacy,

surely gifted by nature’s

infinite desires, must likewise

bear her surprises. for she

is true only to self. in time,


a bitter frost stunned

nearly all the blooms, left some

withered, others gray, a fitting

tableau for the cruelest month:

flowers slumped, blossoms

in wait, and the living in mosaic

with its dead.




the wind ripped us

that day, blasted into the valley with a vengeance,

other sound swept


but not the shots.


not the wail and crumble

of our native stone





above us, the speechless

streaks of orange and sanguine maroon

morphed into an unfamiliar haze.


and the wind, prevailing, kept its long vigil,


blew blossoms in tatters

into a fierce spring snow, the glittering

of tears untold.