Each Spring
hope whispers and hovers
over us; the aspiration of life,
the mid-wife of new, of fresh,
the renovation of flesh in green
dress, freedom of the oppressed,
now, blasting buds.
The cold is gone, and nature has a way
to sway its gown, to frown
at what is left of winter's rage.
Only the sage, the dreamer
and the clown notice the change.
How can we re-arrange persons
to follow nature, to flow
from winter into hope,
to rise again after they cope
with rage?
But hope
is for the clown, the dreamer and the sage.
JV
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