by Gideon Burton
Warm Spring, how many blades of green obey
Your gentle living summons? Tell what gray
And vacant cindered trunks revive in May,
Their sapling strength no longer to betray?
Fresh season, meeting Winter’s tight command;
Persuasion milky warm and rich in spice.
But could you, waking me, bring living twice?
How can the sickened soul in stubble stay
As though the hoarfrost were a funeral shroud?
Will April's God rest sleeping as I pray?
And all Decembers cling and clog and crowd?
The earth will tilt and life pours headlong in
I seek the sun, though pale and wearied thin.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - MightyBoyBrian