The evangelical sun exults,
a meadow floats, and tulips blare,
daffodils and cardinals shine
in bronzy air.
A grumble of bees in tiger vests
belly nectar bloom to bloom,
sip sugared ayes from violets
and lilac plume.
Bluebirds on forsythia sense
an exfoliating wonder:
mountainsides of tardy buds
unfold in taffeta thunder.
Aristotle in his Poetics listed the qualities of poetry and proclaimed that the greatest asset by far was metaphor/figurative language. True in 400 B.C. True always.
Thx. Pure lyric poem attempts to capture the capacity to bloom. We could all benefit from an unfolding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'm trying to comment, but it won't let me. I love it!