Across a Maxfield Parrish sky. Last week �s groundhog forecast offered us no reprieve. Just two day�s worth of good heat lies stacked across the drive. A harbinger wind rattles the backyard trees, hurries our dog To complete her morning routine. The bare ground cracks beneath us as we hasten our return. Scraping its squirrel-gnawed limbs against the weathered Wapole, The old lilac stands at the corner of the house, Ignorant of foreclosure and unemployment. It provides neither shelter nor solace, Knows not the names of window-framed faces Who in seasons past shared better times, Waits only for wet April to push the pain of Whitman�s song To heart-shaped leaves, its pale and perfumed flowers Stained and scented with our hopes of spring. |
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