Member-only story
Spring
The new man is in a strange field
A place only a few of his fathers have been
Rose bushes surrounding, thorns abounding
Magnolias the height of men, ferns lean
The new man, in his old voice, calls
“Worship, worship me.”
The trees in their new life respond
“Why should we bend our boughs?”
“How have you earned it?”
The fields had never spoken such
Not to him or his many fathers before
And the more he reached within
the less he countered
of this wrong design
So, this new man
bends toward ancient stirrings,
lends the arms of the winds
And casts the storm
But forgets to answer the questions
Of pink bristling trees.
He calls on his strength
and bids his will
to tame the fields
Like the beasts he once fought
But the field did not cease
to ask the belligerent king
