Another poem by one of our parishoners…
The birch is still and quiet now
it hangs its fan-like boughs as if
it had not pleaded with wind
like a girl’s wildly tangled hair
to set her free or let her die.
Bent last night almost to the ground
it’s up again. Dewdrops glow
on catkins miniscule with energy
and power to compel the Spring
(as I must do) to shine again.