Ode For a Premature Swansong

 

Did Spring relent her blossoming sending

a late hoarfrost 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, that she must carry on her season

in abundance, with nothing left undone.

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