literature

Blodeuwedd

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TheSaucyMerchant's avatar
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Literature Text

Blodeuwedd

The Sun has returned, there can be no doubt,
As my garden now shags full of tomatoes and carrot tops.
The world smells damp and warm and heavy with black earth 
And the light's wakefulness outstrips my own.
And I should be happy, I suppose,
For birdsong and leaves and aspiring vegetables,
For long days and warm nights and the end of want.
Really I should. 

But I can only be sad for the Bradford pears
That stand in hundreds, feral, in the bottoms.
I can hardly fathom their bravery, 
The first to defy the bite of winter
As they unfurl their small, white blossoms.
It seems absurd that something so delicate 
Could push back the frost, as heros.
My heros. 

Now I watch their petals fall like snow.
They shed their armor, defeated, subdued,
And we are left without our blossoms,
The hope of spring lost to the certainty of summer.
I know now how Lleu felt when Blodeuwedd stepped out,
Like the lights have gone out, leaving only the long ride,
And I grieve for a sadness
Half a world away. 




It's midnight here in the Ohio River Valley and I accidentally a poem. Just a reflection on how I'm pretty sure that I'm the only person ever to be depressed by the coming of summer. I'm just an odd person.
© 2013 - 2024 TheSaucyMerchant
Comments5
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Eosthewitch's avatar
Beautiful. No, you're not the only one who mourns the passing of the seasons. Although I do have something to love in each, I miss the last, so I certainly do identify with what you've expressed here.