When Winter bares the long deception,
I try to capture images of Spring
when for barren surge of reelection
comes forth in song, the scythe will surely ring.
I take it to the everlasting limit
where new-found shadows cumber in the falling
where little is now known of he who’s in it
despite the restlessness of someone calling.
I hear a need for April’s holy beauty
in favor of the groundwork one desires
May flower’s timelessness relends a duty
that cradles all the earth’s warming fire.
The sconce of silence holds one to discover.
that victory comes forth as though no other.
