By Don Iannone
April 11, 2004
Dearest trumpet-shaped flower.
Virtuous mother of rebirth.
You remind us, ever so well,
of early springs, when
we were much younger.
Should we never forget you are the
white-robed apostle of hope.
Gracing all about you.
Your sweet scent lingers
far after you’re gone,
In you, we resurrect
our faith in something larger.
that lives on inside all of us.
i love how the sun so matter of factly screams through the woodland forest,
setting the leaves on fire with gold and yellow hues and tones, and
how tree shadows are painted on the narrow leaf-covered path, carrying
us up the hill and into the pure white sunlight
and just beyond lies the bubbling creek, preparing itself for winter,
once all the leaves have turned brown and fallen to the ground, and
snowflakes dance between the naked branches of the trees, as
thin sheets of ice cover the lazy edges of the creek
and even on this brisk early november day, i can imagine
the forest’s quiet whispers and sighs, as the snow buries the crunchy leaves,
and etches white streaks on the zen-like tree branches, holding their position
until the sun once again sets them free of the clutch of winter