Farewell to Attis

Sprung from blood,
those violets at the mulberry’s feet…
or was it almond or pomegranate?

It little matters.
The crop is sown from seed, not leaves.
The straw man is hollow, blind.
The tree sways in a bitter wind.

Liturgy or common speech,
doubleness persists; paradox
is seldom seasonal. The truth is this:
The hollow man has no history.

The story of that tree
( no matter its denomination…
mulberry, almond, pomegranate)
has passed without a future.

Some say signs are eyesores
but it is April; poems and trees are blossoming.
Flowers bloom… This is no pagan Spring.

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