Newfound Spring

Newfound-Spring-stanza-oneIt was April when I came to earth, and a
gentle rain was falling
And the air was filled with the promise of
Spring – and so I waited until May
Then my eyes feasted with the beauty of
fresh flowers and the multitude
of growing things.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-twoThen it was June, and my blood waxed warm
in the Summer sun, and I raced
across the meadows
And climbed all the hills and rested in the shadiest spots.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-threeAnd while I ran and climbed and rested,
I caught and held many another thing,
Some filled with love, and soft,
like the Summer night
Yet others had thorns which were sharp
and pained much,
Until I learned to leave them alone.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-fourSome  things had beautiful smiles or lips
with promises, but never fulfilled
Yet always waiting.
And others came that touched me lightly
and hardly did I notice
Yet when they left they took much of me
with them.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-fiveAnd with all this running and climbing and
resting – there were many sounds, like
the laughter of children
Or the sound of animals about their way
of life, or growing things.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-sixThe bursting of a million buds – while loud,
yet not loud enough to drown the distant
roar of cannon fire.
Nor the groans of those who died for causes lost.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-sevenA newborn infant’s wail, begins a life anew
yet never is he quiet
And even unto death he’ll speak of all the
things he is – and thrice times that of
which he’s nought.
 A boasting braggart he remains until the
end of time.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-eightAnd then the Autumn came at last –
September wooed and wrapt the world about
in Autumn’s brilliant cloak
So fashioned from the leaves and spent
through sunshine
Now thus becomes a stolen thing.

Newfound-Spring-stanza-nineThen, with a gusty sigh, gave up this cloak
and donned the Winter shroud
And cold became my blood, nor was
there strength to wend my way

Newfound-Spring-stanza-tenAnd in the failing light of one last day,
I rode a sunbeam back to whence I came.
For would I rest awhile and so refreshed,
I could again seek out some April time
and in the falling showers,
I’d come again into a newfound Spring.

by Ernest L. Norman

Excerpt from The Anthenium

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