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| St Paul, Minnesota, 4.1.19, DGJ |
Stripped of autumn's light,
Pummeled by winter's heavy boots:
City parks weep grey, and bleed mud,
And no one plays here,
Just the winds of March in Minneapolis.
Above dull streets, charcoal sky
Holds back April's sun, light cries for spring,
But yields again to barren dusk:
Not now, fire! Not yet, sweet bloom!
Cherish every loss, every hope unmet,
Every leafless branch humbled in futility.
O puzzle! O bewildering sadness!
Still I taste something like the bulb beneath,
Something like the greening of the gracious tree.
Still every unrealized mystery provokes in me
Something like the birthright ecstasy
Which is buried deep and holy in us all.
Blessed are the brokenhearted, you say,
Seasons of stripped streets and hearts,
Once vital fields pummeled by pride and loss.
Hidden in the sad trees is the promise,
After all, of summer harvests and unimagined epiphanies,
The dancing of the dead, who lost it all--
And now have found everything again.
DGJ
4.1.19
St. Paul, Minnesota
