Everywhere one looks,
All is still gray—
Buds of a New
Season remain
Unconscious,
Yet to have
Awakened,
Ungerminated—
But somehow,
Creatures of
The eternal
Singsong
Always arrive
Before time—
Preceding
The sprouting,
Gentle greens;
Predicting
The vibrance of
Blooming passions.
Quietly
They glide
In flight,
To
and
Fro,
In the air,
Unseen,
But felt
Within—
Sitting
Invisible
Among
Barren branches,
They whisper
As the caressing
Breeze,
Foreshadowing
Wonder
and
Rescue
Of A new Spring.
Maybe
In the dampened
Mess of things,
You shall see
Once more
In Clarity,
Able to shake
A few
Mulish monkeys
Off your bag—
On a day like this,
Crave not to
Feel,
Wish not to
See;
Love,
Make yourself
as Cruel as
You can be—
Fuse
Hard wires
To your being.
Yes,
Walk out
During this Storm,
For no one
Sees
Fragile tears
Or hears
Sorry weeps
In a Sea
Of razor-sharp
Beads.
Let the broken
Seek refuge
In the tremulous,
Impartial
Rain,
For its Deluge
Equally wets
And
Justly absolves
Every
Bitter ache.