Rotating as it always does and tipping toward the sun

the earth draws a final frosty breath and exhales spring;

green erupts to the blue song of jays and poplars unfurl

their fluttering leaves like Lazarus shedding his shroud.


Amid the wildness, the lenten rose bends its heavy head

downward, listening to the sound beneath sound, a rumbling

counterpoint to the clamor of joy, carried through clay and

pushed through wormholes ’til it finds the air and becomes


the squabble of timber and saw, one protesting the bite

of the other; the clangor of iron and hammer,

spitting sparks as a point is made;the bray of a beast that

waits for its rider in the city that kills prophets.


The earth spins on while the season sings and the lenten rose

bears witness to the death that always comes in the spring.


© dana hughes 4.7.14

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