Sunday Night

What have you retained,

Looking at early spring lace, trees 

Against sunsetted sky?

You search for odd, old connections,

Those you assumed when the world behaved.

There is horizon and

The gift of view;

Not even speaking metaphorically,

It feels almost undiscovered,

This reliable newness, comfort of a season giving way,

Tho’ it has always been so.

Tonight, and in last nights,

A new world arrives,

Birthed from winter;

Promised by winter

It has been coming, in fits and starts.

Like her people, the new

Earth and her sojourners

Can't keep from trying:

Rising Earth, we bloom and strive.