The pear tree's thin white blossoms sing,
and blue-grape hyacinth bells all ring--
a tremolo against the wild warm winds.
The day Death died.
And I can't help but think how I, too, will one day rest beneath the fall leaves and the winter snow. I'll leave quietly then--no frenzied bucket list to clutter my last days.
No. I plan to come back.
So all the things I haven't done can wait for that long morning in the sunlight.
My lively spring.
My resurrection day.