Saturday, May 18, 2024

Forsythia

 


What must it feel like

after months of existing as bare brown sticks,

all reasonable hope

of blossoming lost,

to suddenly, one warm

April morning, burst

into wild yellow song,

hundred of tiny prayer

flags rippling in the still-

cold wind, the only flash

of color in the dull yard,

these small scraps of light,

something we might hold on to.

--Barbara Crooker




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