AN EAR FOR THE UPRISING OF SAP
Now he has lived to see another spring,
it touches a man that his tears are only salt.
In nature there is no certain end.
All is flux and fleet:
the brave new greening of the grass,
the first eerie whistle of the meadow larks,
those small dear lives
that are not built with hands.
The terror that faces mice
lives at peace with great events.
The sun toward which man turns his face
requires blood.
[ Note: A found poem based on Donald Culross Peattie, An Almanac for Moderns (1935). The poem, including the title, re-arranges phrases from Peattie’s entry for “March Twentieth.” Punctuation and sentence boundaries are my own. ]
Glint Literary Journal 