Malode to a Premature Swansong


Did Spring relent her blossoming sending

hoarfrost late on unripened cherries?

Did she fertilize her stillborn bushels,

caramelize her green bulbs like lollipops

so bloom and harvest could become one garden

of unpicked crops and unrung peal of bells?

She did not lament with rainshower that month

the loss of a single orchard of my cherries,

only she must carry on her season

in abundance, with nothing left undone.

Continue reading “Malode to a Premature Swansong”