Why have I never seen the turn of spring to summer,
overnight the moonlight sings sweetly into possible
the cycles—storms to sun,
a daffodil, then a rose.
And if time winds through the shadows, why do I not see
that beneath the ancient after, all the befores–
a language barely spoken, questions asked and lost
like faded blooms. But still, the promise, like a smile, recalled,
in the robin’s song at dawn.
It took some work to get a message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle today. I’m taking it easy after my second Covid vaccine yesterday, but the moon was humming early this morning and a robin was singing. Tonight is the start of Passover.