A strange gift, this
Small, scarred root
Long buried in barren soil,
But she gave it -
Trembling and fearful of
Winter's mockery on
Spring's new growth.
But the light - the
Light that burst in
Unforeseen splendour
In that silent place
Cherished this precious
Shared flowering in its
Vulnerable birth.
And the wounded gardener
Smiled, and turned from the
Tomb-mouth, and
Left the woman to
Face the dawn.
©C.M.M.
2 comments:
I think a lot of poets get to write more poetry in spring than the other seasons. It's just so vibrant and happy. Incidentally I just posted a poem on spring too. :)
Chris, I haven't looked in a while. It's as if I opened a box to see again treasured old things and discovered a new hoard, more than I can take in at one viewing. I will be back, time and again. For now, the surface beauty is enough. Later, I will pick these pieces up and run my fingers over their faces and search out the glints crafted deep in each facet. And the wonderful thing is that each bit of brilliance will mean something a little different to each viewer. Thanks and thanks!
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