Monday, March 11, 2013

NO WITHERED DAY APART





No withered day apart wastes its aimless

Rush on felling leaves too soon; the lakes speed

No surface still or soft unseasoned, freed,

Retouched by sun’s rebuffs alone.  No test


Survives the clock, nor tested held above

The greed the grains demand; no music made

Can go unheard, untoned, untouched; no glade

Can winter-gaunt remain when spring’s green glove


Slips soft above the sudden smells of life,

And twists the husks of hemp to smiles beneath

The frozen leaves’ black edge, and sees the snow-teethed-

Grin, dull, decay before the blue light’s knife.


Spring again?  What is all this waiting worth?

It comes when it will come and knows no haste. . .

But just this once, let’s face it first and taste

Its joy with all the fools of earth.

(Clicking on images enlarges them.)

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