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this moment in time

The lilac tree is late, in a negation
of what lateness is
to fecundity – she stands
there, punily bare
and of a lesser green,

almost lost and unseen

against the crab apple
and her bright and riotous
loudly glorious

of almost, almost

almost but not quite pristine

there are still buds as pink as berries
and this morning’s blossom still carries
a ghost of pink nacre
on their interrupted velvet.
The lilac’s is grey silk,
old and worn and pale and stale
and still bare
and barren and late.

In my contemplation,
I reflect that in the collective soul
of my primordial fold,
trees are female
as is the grass –
givers of the life
they alone can bless,
they can but be called
by the lasting caress
of a woman word:

and thus lateness,
blame it on the stalled
Spring or some other fate
or indifferent word,
or on the tree’s lost strife
against changeability,
becomes fall –

and thus Nature without redress
will die by man’s sword.
© Nina Light CC-BY-NC-ND


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