Crocuses

Last night we had a bit of wind

Now my Crocuses lay in shreds

Among their pointed leaves

That man must suffer so incredibly

Within his mind, amazes me.

But still a man must face his death, before he lives.

The grass is gold and brushed like hair against the hill.

Its soul lives still

And soon will reappear, long and green

And so with me

I thrash among my painful dreams

A wounded thing

But then–

To conquer all!

That final spring.

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