Ode To Spring's Lament

It is springtime; the sky is bluer than
the blue upon which I see
Heaven's clouds.

In the thawness of an old winter, we
weep words no one else can hear;
our hidden heartache is steady.

It is always springtime when
darkness blooms.
I call Ode to your sweet
lips,

Ode to the crowd of the unlamented eye,
Ode to bliss which comes
straight from Heaven.
Lilacs bloom on garden walls;
it is Springtime.
Hear the birds twitter at dusk.

-From my chapbook, Winter's Light