The leaf buds in bereaved and stricken multitude of golden green but frame
The azalea’s unconsolable magnificence of fuchsia.
The waxwings, warblers, and woodpeckers’ percussion
Fill the vernal morning light
With a clamoring din of death.
Everywhere you turn in these lengthening days
You hear and see and smell again and again
That there is no hope at all.