Last Sunday of April

The last
of ruthless winter
buffets the newborn leaves
of our long suffering mother maple.
Two summers ago
she lost a limb
to a villainous
summer wind
and now this.
Callous, bruising slaps
twist and turn her tender green cheeks
of unfurling life, the brutality of the
last vestige of cold as it rushes east,
raging at its forced exile,
without compassion,
lashing out to defile
the warmth of its
seasonal usurper.
To all of this
the robins
bear witness
and still
they sing –
as if it
means nothing.

Categories: Poetry

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