POEM
Not Christmas nor the new year white with snow
and cold with dying names emasculate
marks for our lives the
new
year. Only spring
arrived at its fulfillment, at the peak
of verdurous blossoming
connotes the quick
deep breath of hope
again-the sharp release
of man grown tense with winter, now set free
to soar again (this day when our grasp,
grown powerful, foretells
its final fusion with our scope), to surge
in multitude toward greatness.
On this day
the small deeds of the year, infinitesimal,
unnoticed in the smoke of skirmish, cleave
fiercely together. The edi fice grows huge,
becomes unvanquishable mass: the voice
and eyes and ears of us who have grown strong
on bitter bread, dry root.
And now we march I
The brain will not deny
the days that come with verdure nor the eye
ignore the splendor of the changing year
invested with surprise; bells clanging in the ear
with sound that drowns the singing of the birds
and voices rich with prophecy-the words
fraught with great deeds.
Down countless avenues
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