BUSTED FLUSH

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The flush of daffodils

with their flame of yellow innocence,

Now dowsed and dead.

Brown and broken

The hope that Spring promised…

This year as all other years,

Lies thrashed like wheat,

Crushed and pounded

By the vagaries

of the spinning wheel of weather.

It’s turbulent tumult turning

west to east to west again…

Yes, the trees are green again,

And yes, the grasses grow,

But Hope is lost,

Hope is the pregnant pause

Between Winter and Summer,

And in my Autumn years,

Spring’s seeping sap

Trickles so slow…

copyright Dale Beck 2018

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