Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Petals twirl onto syrupy green. Warm winds whisk from the distant seas. So much promise rides on the shoulders of spring.
But now I see the shadows in the April sun.
The ground always knew. Below every bloom is a promise withered. Below every leaf, the tangles of a storm.
We choose what direction to stand.
Don't look for me in the shadow portraits. I'll face the sun and move where the wind takes me.
I refuse to stretch away into the dark. Where should I look for you?