It’s just Spring

The quiet of the naked trees release

The spores of pity. Chevrons, white and red,

From blackbirds flash. Mechanicals are still.

Ascending from a silent fairy land

Life groans, gripped by winter that has overstayed

It’s times. The ceanothus pushes out

Against a past where Arthur and Sir Gawain

Are holding still beneath the meadow oaks—

Burnt alarums shutter thought and time

Is needed to release the anger, pain

While redbuds, dogwoods struggle for the sun.

Wait, oppressive, suffocates the hope

That struggles trapped beneath a shattered land.

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