Even in late Spring as light grows larger
the shadows deepen and stretch from beneath
the twisting Live Oaks. Hope’s a tricky thing:
We cling to it like dust motes in sunlight,
ever afraid it won’t be enough.
Later, the inevitability,
so obvious, stuns us into silence:
All the signs were there waiting to be seen.
Yet, we did see them slithering beneath
the lightest shadows, only pretending
what was there was not truly there at all.
And there lies the rub, our willful blindness
allows us to believe our world is safe,
and Spring brings endless fields of daffodils.
(March 9, 2024)
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