The Trees, Dawn

Late, the willow pushes out her new leaf.

Great pink blossoms in bunches like
bouquets hang head-heavy against
willow's stasis. 
Peonies emerge, pink and blood.

Wren piccolo, 
and the heavy perfume of a dying rose.
She brings flowers that are dying. These
are mauve. Zephyr-caressed, their petals,
fawn-edged. 

Shades of pungence, 
of mauve pungence.
They will bow-down by morning.

I do not understand. The green leaf falls
on my black end table. Why bring the
dying to me? Haven't I had enough dying?
Your mauve roses, zephyr-curled, 
are browning. Frilled.

The white cherry blossom is blown. Tulip
mouths hang open in despair. I almost step
on a white eggshell, broken, out-of-nest.
There is a dead tree and no nest above me.

The small birds have flown.
The rooks in the ancient tower
do not want to be disturbed by me.

There are trays of proliferating pansies
by the church steps. Several snails seek succor in her
door frames. A cross across a mossy path once
an egress, stops you in your tracks.

The village vases are being replenished.


© Chris Murray, 2024.

Note. "The Trees, Dawn" forms a part of my recently published work "Found Poem, Spring".  The three parts of the poem are "The Trees, Night", "There Are More Blue Flowers in Spring", and "The Trees, Dawn". Thanks to the editors of Skylight47, Bernie Crawford, Ruth Quinlan and D’or Seifer for publishing this excerpt. The poem in its entire can be read here.