Spring rose from sleep too soon, I fear,
lifted her head into cold, clear
starlight. Blinked, shuddered, then reaped
the pain of her mistake. The year
will always bear the mark, carved deep
in lore: this spring that frost killed, creeped
into the buds with ice. Life left
the trees as if they had been steeped
in poison. Without fruit, bereft,
the birds ceased song. Their hearts were cleft.
Season’s shift should be smooth and deft,
Instead, we’ve suffered winter’s theft.
—
Watch for Roy Beckemeyer’s new book of ekphrastic poems, Amanuensis Angel, coming soon (March 2018) from Spartan Press, Kansas City, MO.
The Zingara Project 