voices in the trees

Spring 1997

the daffodils are having a hard time of it
this easter;
it’s here too soon
for one thing.
like st. paul, untimely born.
my mother’s irises
have been pushing
tentatively
through the still hard soil.

I say; go back down
inanna can’t come out this month,
not yet and who knows when…..

earthquakes, volcanoes, blood in
Africa, and on every urban street
in north america;
hunger everywhere,
snow in summer,
cyberspace on the outside,
shifting images in nano life.

Too soon.
we’re not ready yet for this

rapture.

elderly gardeners erred
with the loving thoughtfulness
of another time,
cleaning up their gardens,
setting their beds in order,
uncovering the shoots….
exposing them to ice and frost….
It’s just too soon.

who knows more
than the leaves,
not us and maybe no one
anymore.
do we know how the seasons form,
can we stop the snows,
or clear the skies,
or make the sap run true?
are our muscles sinewy enough to race the clouds?

what resurrection is coming from the skies
After
the time of death and blessings.

edited 2014