By the Lilacbush
A Sunday in November - but the lilacbush still holds the witness of a fragrant May; in spite of autumn storms the robin's nest
sits safe and firm deep in the secret branches.
The blossom grew to fruit; the heart shaped leaves
are shed and blown across the lawn - the street.
And yet this bush of fall, though winter took its toll
exacting all of summer's plenitude,
keeps safe the promise of another spring.
When does a year begin? In fall? In spring?
When does it end? in an unbroken ring
the seasons claim and take, bestow their gift -
And time? Not long, not brief; not slow, not swift
must go and come at its own pace - we wait -
wait for the lilac, blooming by the gate.