March: Year-day 75

 
                                        
                                           
March: Year-day 75

Now the storm is over, the linemen gone,
and poems I meant to write still somewhere hid
beneath my consciousness, I now go on,
determined to fill the blanks, seal the lid,
even if it does take till fall, or next
year.  When faith weakens, hang to hope:  The trees--
though so many by the vile ice were hexed--
did, frozen to earth, spent, trunks split to knees.

And so, when what is sought is found, and shown,
budding all over with flowers and leaves
despite their wounds, which cannot/ be removed,
I and you will be happy we had known
the man who struggles rules the man who grieves,
raising in sunlight what persistence proved.

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