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.
Life soon denies the lure of sleep
and green begins ascending sky
When new old-earth bursts wide with shoots
that stream from life that would not die—
Life that's enticed by radiant light
that incites instincts deep within,
That heats, defeats and melts the freeze
and warms and speeds the tacking wind
Which soon dries-up the filthy snow
revealing, then, harsh winter's sins
Committed in those desperate nights,
for which springmust, now, make amends.
Up out of soil rise the dead,
springing back to life in spring,
As newborn bees and migrant birds
contest that wind to dart and sing
And man attends his stewardship
of all the magic spring will bring.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.
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