you will bind up the wounds of the lilac bush
while the birds make inordinate music after the storm
wanting to help darting like light in a prismed rush,
Spring will return in flowerets of ice only once more
mistaking them for flowers
and all the shadows on your lawn
will linger grape stained
in a sweet communion
not yet reckoned on.
honey in the hives with slow alacrity will gather
and the honey of your days
will never end.
mary angela douglas 12 april 2020
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