Saturday, June 2, 2012

Dogwood in Bloom

Some cold January night
The park must have had a stroke,
For this tree has grown back white,
The shock of blossoms an end decreed,
Stunted and quiet,
Still in spring's riot,
Death amid the towering green see.

But what's this?

There's blood still in this flesh
And what seemed a carrion cloud of flies
Trades life for life in life enmeshed.
Wormy fingers beckon, hanging green
And spin on glittering gilt,
Mad maypoles of silk
To herald tomorrow's white wings.

No comments:

Post a Comment