Transfigured

Days draw near
when the meadow’s laced with buttercups
and daisies nod their pretty heads
in rhythm with the wind.

May we never weary
in our delight of seasons: the changing skies;
the golden rays. O! blessèd
is The Painter’s hand

that makes the flowers bloom
and blessèd are Spring’s promises
that bear the hopes and birth the faith
of ordinary man.

One thought on “Transfigured

  1. BoardFlak

    I can’t believe no one else has yet commented in praise of this poem. Poets, like painters, capture the beauties of spring.

    I have been a little scarce of late, battling an eye irritation. The needed medicine left me with blurry vision, making it hard to read.

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