Morning Poem, March 17, 2017



Its branches, brittle and brown, stretch up and flower out

It looks like a giant shaving brush

Dead now, among the dormant trees on the far lawn

Here in the dead of winter


But I have seen it before, many times

And in weeks I know it will be aflame

With green leaves and yellow blossoms

And will grow, tender and supple, like a swelling stream

With each day of sunlight


All of that life is inside it now

Hidden, and waiting for the call


copyright 2017

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