On Sunday in Spring Waiting for the Service to Be Over

Brad Bostian

What is time to an orb weaver?
In winter, nothing of the clock.
It spins its fatal snowflake
Disengaged from time and place.

What is death to a dog in spring
When dogs run everywhere?
Something of the palate
Like everything else.

What is the sermon to a bird
At the sanctuary window
When the weather changes
And leaves are coming out?

Resonance, and only,
But for me, the organ playing
Is somehow like the flowers
I have grown, will grow.


To TOCE-Mail the AuthorSerendipity Link