I will see you again, and then your hearts will be filled with joy. Alleluia.
What yellow? What child's rows
of waxy crayons or painter's slathered whorls
could mimic the finch's shock of hue
through the dim, rain-meshed morning?
What blooms rival the trumpet-
blast of lemon song
throughout spring's hazy kingdom
He lights on red-budding
branches of the Japanese maple,
a plumped, chromatic
strength of samurai.
And who can pass by
and not be hooked with his glory?
What cold soul,
accustomed to ice,
does not crave
as lilting, winged sun-fire