Spring is peeking through and will soon be in all its glory.
on branches that seem,
for all the world, dead,
the blooming begins.
Yellows, purples, reds, and pinks -
the bulbs keep their own calendar:
first come the crocus,
the grape hyacinth next,
then sun-dropped daffodils
along roadsides,
in pastures,
a lonely one beside a busy highway.
Fragile tulips emerge,
each blossom a prayer
that wind will not
blow it away.
The azaleas are many,
clipped into hedges, color on color,
while others grow wild and wiry
beneath white and pink dogwoods,
witnesses to a Savior crucified -
but rising, always rising,
as does our southern spring.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-03-16 at 18:05
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Rising, Always Rising
As green brightenson branches that seem,
for all the world, dead,
the blooming begins.
Yellows, purples, reds, and pinks -
the bulbs keep their own calendar:
first come the crocus,
the grape hyacinth next,
then sun-dropped daffodils
along roadsides,
in pastures,
a lonely one beside a busy highway.
Fragile tulips emerge,
each blossom a prayer
that wind will not
blow it away.
The azaleas are many,
clipped into hedges, color on color,
while others grow wild and wiry
beneath white and pink dogwoods,
witnesses to a Savior crucified -
but rising, always rising,
as does our southern spring.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-03-16 at 18:05
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
