Seeing its Song

Oh, to capture the language
of that violet seen from a window
that is lifted a bit
to let in a touch of Spring.

The lawn’s first green is untrimmed,
unruly in its vigor, now that the winter
has passed or at least
taken pause.

There in the midst of it all,
a violet as bright as a gem,
bruised purple
at the moment of birth

and buffeted by a rowdy
wind. Yet it stands resolute,
upright on a supple stem
that bends rather than breaks.

Isolated by its shape and hue,
this harbinger of summer caught alone
in a cloudburst with frigid intention,
the mercury  fast dropping.

Quietly taking its stand, even in silence
speaking  as surely as any celebrity
espousing their greatest expression,
its life is its message.

6 thoughts on “Seeing its Song

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