Children play
Adults brood
As the charitable mood
Paces like a prisoner in debt to solitude.
The hyacinths scream from their garden of pain
And the winds shudder over the sickly maples.
Those who know what death is may straddle its bucking fears, all I can do this fine morning is love the eye that sleeps in spring colors and feed the mouths others use to exhale a final breath for war, famine or the treats to abundant for little baskets filled with the honey of hopelessness.
Umbriate Press Poetry 