By Jo Anzalone 1996
Sweet April with her tender sighs
begins her second week of life,
lifting up to God
her offering
of tiny lilac leaves.
Easter has been fulfilled,
has passed
into resurrection.
So...
why
is the world
blanketed
in snow?
One would expect
such blueness of the sky
such sunlight
To arc their presence over spring pastels
But,
no,
The world is
white...
and no one is about.
Fuzzy Sam and I slip out
to wander where we will;
the ridge is ours
alone,
A secret treasure
through which to run the fingers
of my heart.
So
lightly
does its whiteness lie on twigs
it seems to lift
and not to weigh,
And in the glowing morning light
its fluff on every pod and stem
fills my silent garden
with sparkles
and "blossoms"
surely magical enough to please
a flower--fairy queen.
An ethereal visitor,
it lays its benediction on the land
like manna in the dawn,
melting
with the coming of the day.
And I, alone,
with my lensed black pot
store it
before its passing,
Framing views as powdered sugar snow sifts down,
brushed from high branches,
I know,
by angel wings.
Its beauty
enhanced
by transience,
It fills my heart.
