Death's not the victor, after all;
the equinox comes as a scold;
Life cracks the ground in shades of green,
throws off the lethargy of cold,
And wakesand grows from fertile seeds,
aroused from dormant winter's night
When dark was tantamount to death
and hope lay idle, out of sight.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.