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.

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