Mean

A poem should not mean, but be. - Archibald MacLeish

Sunday, February 5, 2012

grace

The trees stand weighted
with prophesies of snow;
a burden received,
but not sought.

They preach, these trees,
in snaps and creaks
and the falling away of their glittering
whiteness.
The morning sun clothes them
in brilliant revelations,
while the sky above dazzles
in a far blue emptiness.

With snow melting
on my upturned face,
I wonder if I but stretched 
from the highest branches,
could I send ripples across
its azure smoothness?

But there’s no need.
For yesterday,
the sky came down as snow
to grace the forest and 
the flowers that hide beneath.

In spring, when dying snows 
free every flower from winter's grasp,
I will gather them up, one by one,
into small bouquets for our home.

Each one a reminder that,
like the snow covering the forest today,
grace is given to us all -

just as the promise of spring
is given to the flowers 

by the dying snows.


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1 comment:

  1. This is beautiful. Poetry is a difficult genre for me. I tend analyze the writing as I go rather than letting it read me and speak to me. For whatever reason, I had not inclination to even do this with this piece. I simply received. Perhaps it is the subject of the poem? This was pure "grace" for me today.

    Thank you.

    P. Am.

    ReplyDelete