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.
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