Cheers!

We praise our lined faces.  We forgive time.
We raise our cups of double-pressed wine.
We know brute forests from our seed-time
We know heaven will cleave those we entwine
The season of heat is slow to erupt.
April is late. March is still covered with snow,
Its shabby sheet weak shoots barely interrupt.,
Succession and succession is what we know.

In the thronged marketplace  we know we’ll find
Lines of who came before and  who came after
All seem in be arranged by some infinite mind
Knowing where our line goes will not stop our laughter.

We dance. All dances are in our repertoire.
We know we’re headed to that sacred abattoir.


Marc Tretin