poems & poetic prose
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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
dress

of almost, almost

almost but not quite pristine
whiteness:

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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