A. Baez Posted April 20, 2020 Share Posted April 20, 2020 These boughs, new-flushed in April air, Never looked more fresh or fair, Proclaiming hopes unhinged from harm— A triumph etched in every arm. Yet last July still sears my mind: For weeks, a drought and heat combined, Singeing leaves on every limb; Insulting summer’s gentle stems! Their pretty purples browned and fell, Littering the ground pell-mell— And nothing I, a friend, might do Could help these maples muddle through. To April’s eyes, such thoughts much seem The efflux of a bitter dream— Except that dried stems, here and there, Rise now by lush ones—wholly bare. Revision: L10 was "Scorched as if by breaths of hell" 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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