Poems from a Friend - On the Forest Floor
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On the Forest Floor
Now,
even the most gentle of female rains
brings down the early dogwood
blossoms,
once white,
now stained pink and red
as if bruised and wounded,
sent to the forest floor
to bleed quietly in the shade.
The petals are dirty
are cut and bleeding,
and looking closely,
their hurt faces plead into mine.
But what can I do?
I gather a handful,
six or seven,
and begin to shout around about the glory of these
fallen criers of
Spring’s army of joy,
naming the days of their bannered and heralded births,
touting the courage of first blossoms,
and going on about their short lives of timeless purity.
Afterward,
I let the petals drop from my fingers,
watch them come to rest
on last Autumn’s leaves,
now dead one full season
and resting with new stories
of the Winter
for the telling to
the freshly fallen dead
of Spring’s army of joy.
