Easter Forsythia


They tiptoe, dance, and spin

bright sun across my tired yard,

still dressed in her old tattered

coat of winter’s shadowed cold.

Wee flowerets sing to me their

yellow song of rising life;

shout golden hallelujahs,

he is risen; he is risen indeed;

trumpet bold the tidings,

shake the air, pierce through my

fears; spill out their earthy psalm of

wonder, jubilation at the mystery of

life beyond the winter’s ice, of life

beyond the stone cold mask

of every sullen death.

2 thoughts on “Easter Forsythia

  1. I never expected this poem to end with the last two breathtaking lines, particularly “sullen death”. No way “sullen death” can tiptoe, dance and spin. Wow. Thank you.

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