The Tritest Song


Renewal& Easter,,,April love& rebirth
Are easy, archetypal terms for when
Fresh shoots begin to green the thawing Earth
And fill with sweet cliches this poet s pen.
At least I know what Spring is not
The cruelest month s not April, no,
In spite of Mister T. S. Elliot
Whose Spring and soul were both of snow.
But he was young. Age brings surcease,
And Spring, forsythia and daffodils,
As flowered sonnets sprout, increase,
And decorate the rain-swelled rills.
Thus, in the landscape of my autumn brain
The hues of yellow and of green remain.
03-23-83

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