I wrote the following eleven years ago, when I had the poetry bug:
I waited expectantly for Spring,
I thought I saw it rounding
The corner of March to sing
An April Easter hymn of praise.
Magnolia blooms peaking from barky bunkers
And Daffodil patches of trumpet heads were raised.
But paradise portendings and painted
Skies of azure brilliance were wanting,
With foggy afternoons of glum and tainted
Mornings of frost, knifing at unbundled backs.
But so is Spring, at least of my earth,
Neurotic and New England fickle, cracks
Our perking senses poised for beauty. . .
But, ah! Beauty there is, still clothed in gray,
Bleeding and drooped beneath the moody
Clouds, shrieking: “It is finished!”
And howling winds give way
To silence with sudden change diminished.
I waited expectantly for Spring,
I thought I saw it rounding
The corner of March to sing
An April Easter hymn of praise.
I did see it,
And I wait.
Filed under: Spirituality Tagged: April, Easter, Poem 
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