Though we may suffer
We see not death.

Heart be cool, it is not yet.
Heart be cool, perfectly.

And heart, be calm continually.
We suffer, but not death, as yet.

A voice, as if afar, speaks
Sweetly to me, "So, be at rest."

Viola, with suddenness the cry,
"It is spring!" they all sang
In chorus oh so sweet.
They spread their wing
And as sweetly they sing
Opening wide their tiny beaks,
(Yes, some even stamped their feet!)
Singing loudly, for all the bright world,
"Spring has finally been reached!"

(Formerly When Love Goes)

The night is a silver cage
Containing the dry bones of love.

But my heart bleeds for you for
I wish I had been able to flesh you out.

Yet here we both are
Barely human, anymore.

Glass bottles and other whimsies,
Sparkle in rows on windowsills.
Around the world there are tchotchkes.
These little booms of whimsies live
As blooms of plants die.
Is that their secret?

And so it begins, the greening of spring
On still as yet cold ground.  Shoots bursting
And unseen buds developing in hidden places.
The greening first begins in the sheltered spaces
Along the walls, in unnoticed corners.  Nursing
Its offspring that had clung to life, it is given wings.
The greening of spring now takes its annual flight.
Thus, soon this secret work will bring all delight.
Yes, how could I not extoll such an inspiring sight?

Winter leaves in its wake its own form of beauty,
But eventually it gives way to the greening of spring.
And birds will sing, and flowers will bloom.
What of our love?

Criticize me if you will
For the brevity of my succinct verse.
I try to say what is needed in few words.
For I am a lazy poet not wanting to labor
Unending, nor burden you, dear reader.