On The Sunday After Easter

The rosy bud offered such promise.
But at the tip of the branch
where one is most vulnerable
there is little protection from
icy wind in early spring
that takes you almost by surprise.

When rain begins, only drops at first,
then drizzle, and finally downpour,
delicate leaves no longer able to grasp
the sprig tumble to the ground sinking
mud deep, too far away to be rescued.

The bud, once a life promised,
let go to the pummeling wind,
no longer able to wait for the sun.
He took his life of thirteen years
on the Sunday after Easter.

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Author’s Note:

God bless you, little one.

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