by Earl J. Wilcox
Like other days, today I scour the sky,
taste the wind, feel free thoughts
about many splendid things out there,
in here—I must yet tell. Item: in the
front yard a small enclave of dogwoods,
still hibernating from winter’s habit,
no buds or blossoms in sight,
despite its being Easter weekend.
Good Friday’s here, but nature
is off playing games with something
more or less important.
But all is not lost: inside the clutch
of frail dogwoods stands erect a bright
tulip tree. Looking like Lenten purple
the blossoms keep adjusting their heads
for March winds, stares from civilization
as the winsome blooms alone bear
witness to the season, spring and all
that glory of winds freely whirring
around and about---eternal.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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