by Theodora Goss
Slowly the willow has turned to silver,
slowly, slowly, over the town,
a shadow has crept — the hint of the season,
the green-gauze hem of Spring’s wild gown.
Slowly the river begins to murmur,
slowly I measure the lengthening days,
and the birds return and from high in the budding
trees begin their virelays.
Grasses that cover the graveyard alleys
regain their verdure and windily nod,
and Spring herself sits upon the tombstones,
smiling a smile that is sweet and mad.
Her gown spreads away when the wind is blowing,
a green-gauze net that rides on the air,
and slowly the willow has turned to silver,
and neither she nor I can care.
(The painting is Dream by Joan Brull. The poem is from my collection Songs for Ophelia.)