In time of year when birds refuse to sing, and hot decaying winds blow through the trees, for those who still lament the end of spring the eye of heaven shines to scorch the seas. And in this light two flowers grow apart with each a lonely grief that they withhold, and sinking towards a life with fading heart still searching for a love that grows from gold. In pride they look above the humble grass. In gall they spit upon forgiving dirt, and vainly view the world through mirrored glass afraid that fate will sow more tears than worth. While time knows all, it does not free reveal, for those who live past spring must learn to feel.
The soft peony looks as much its worth with beauty that outwits the poet’s pen, first grew in spring’s blue sky and watered earth now tears are dry, it seeks to love again. And eager with the virtue it conserves to reach atonement’s gold with longing hand to seek the eyes that purity deserves to fill the well that is the heart’s demand. But through the blushing eyes from which it looks contempt on those who lay among the grass, and colored by the flirting leaves of books perceives not humble joys but rather class. In judging petals, disregarding roots finds hopeless love that yields but sour fruits.
22
SPRING 2020
