Forsythia — Original Poetry, Scribings and Photography

Perching between tangled trees,

Blue jay, guide the way

Home as chunks of kicked

Snow skid like Styrofoam.

Creator of Earth, to water

Added dirt, and delivered

Kindling to Hell. Where are we

Headed chattering passerine? 

Heaven? I cannot tell, forced

To dwell on the inconceivable;

Quarantined like vased clippings

Of Forsythia, forced to flower

Clusters of four yellow lobes 

Inside, away from the vibrant

Shining sunrays of early spring.

We repent our sins during Lent

Before reckoning blossoms.

Yet, not rising Easter Sunday

To witness another resurrection.

An invisible killer silently floating.

Forsythia — Original Poetry, Scribings and Photography
Photo by Kristina Paukshtite on

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