4.16.07

4. mourning doves wooed us at dusk. warm weather early this year, our pear trees and dogwoods had blossomed too soon. jonquils bristled in auspicious clusters. even the stateliest branches teased us with touches of color.

such delicacy, surely gifted by nature's infinite desires, must likewise bear her surprises. for she is true only to self. in time,

a bitter frost stunned nearly all the blooms, left some withered, others gray, a fitting tableau for the cruelest month: flowers slumped, blossoms in wait, and the living in mosaic with its dead.

16. the wind ripped us that day, blasted into the valley with a vengeance, other sound swept away.

but not the shots. not the wail and crumble of our native stone

Forever.

above us, the speechless streaks of orange and sanguine maroon morphed into an unfamiliar haze.

and the wind, prevailing, kept its long vigil,

blew blossoms in tatters into a fierce spring snow, the glittering of tears untold.