Holy Saturday

The day before, relentless rain beat hard
Upon the fragile earth; soaked near to the skin
We sought the shelter of our homes, our heads
Bowed very low by a storm so foul and grim,

And though today the cloud is slowly lifting,
The birdbath’s surface ripples in the breeze,
Just like a bowl of overflowing tears,
And softly falls the blossom from the trees,

Which briefly, with such fleeting beauty, decks
The sodden grass. Yet on the broken ground
A pair of hopeful goldfinch search for seeds
Beginning now to swell and sprout, their crowns

Blood-red, a vivid sign amid the gloom
That on the morrow life once more shall bloom.

19 Apr 25