“No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn” Hal Borland
Who says that death has won the day when spirit simply takes to wing?
For dance in shadows, shades revealed, generated face in space, offspring shoot in sapling host, from common soil, shared clay to boot, shaped and modelled, those thought lost.
It echoes in the brushing pine, the candelabra, would-be cones, those mammals calling resin home, glue sticky buds and syrup veins, hang heavy vapour pheromones.
Frozen seed of cedar, spruce, that must lie dormant to produce, a wasteland till the spring announced and water tap, sun-rising trope declares stir, wake-up imminent.
So long hard days have given way, crack brittle chrysalis must break, releasing magic in the air - see sail and swoop of swallowtails, swift the air, throng wings as prayer.
First published by Medusa’s Kitchen
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