When Words Will Not Suffice
I sit fireside on the Homestead in Spring,
the trees still bare but budded branches promising
an explosion of green. Knotted leaves, like fists,
warn away bad weather, but Winter insists
on a proper farewell. Bleeding hearts bow in homage
at the wind’s retreat. Rooted in rotted plumage,
trillium and columbine tremble. The clouds compete
with a ripening sun. Charged with the sweet
smell of fermented earth and rain, the air
swells. Leaves, like fingers, unfurl. As if in prayer,
lady slippers’ pointed plumes aim toward sky. I tend
the fire. Like stars, sparks wink and ascend.
Above the webbed branches I let my mind drift.
Thoughts of Fran in this haven I let my heart lift.
