Archive
03/23/09 - (2)
The Flowering Hour
For not quite a week, now, Our city's sidewalks and yards have been spilling over, With white-rioting Bradford pear trees,
And my head has been harmonizing English madrigals, As though this spring were my beginning, A jubilee too regal, for its sacred occasion, to be denied voice.
Other colors have joined the chorus, in divine clairvoyance: Soft, subtle purples of tulip magnolias, Pulsating yellow impastos of forsythias and daffodils,
Immemorially redemptive red-pink blossoms Dripping from limbs of weeping cherries and crab apples — Symbols reminiscent of God's misty Creation.
Each late March, at almost precisely this same renascence — This purgative resurgence of Earth's vitality, Its promise that eternity is more than human delusion —
I run wild, serenely free, like the fully-grown child I've become, Up and down the streets of our ecstasied city, Ripping multiclustered twigs, from Bradford pear trees,
As though each myriadly petaled flower were a grail Containing the mystical elixir I must drink If I'm to release my soul to the paradise of this season.
03/23/09 - (2)
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