The Late Bloom Of Spring Poem by RIC BASTASA

the beginning of thought
is the
trap where the firefly
finds itself,

where you find a broken
wing of a butterfly or that

wasp, an empty nest of mud
hanging upon a twig

the last drop of rain
and the fading sound of

a tweeting until an ending
becomes visible,

and this is where you start
to ponder

that end, that leaving.

it seems to me that
death is a johnny-come-lately

then thinking is born,
a late bloom new in spring.