Fruhling Poem by Morgan Michaels

Fruhling



Now is the time to come-
and the tree, swept clean
of purple, hosed
into the gutter like after-the-wedding
confetti, stands merely green.

But, what green!
Overnight, the busy painter, not loath,
(for Nature a vacuum abhoreth)
tints each leaf with
gold betokening growth.

We tilt back brims-
to an ancient song
coin novel words;
marvel how the times, again,
return and returning, move along.

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