poem #30

Second Blossoming
by Ruth Lechlitner

Now that the hunger born of Spring
Burned in her blood no longer,
Now that fruit 
Drew its sweet milk no more from hidden root
Nor bent the heavy bough, no urgent thing
Stirred in her flesh: so must the heart grow wise,
Serene, with Summer's ending, as the skies.

But when from some high portal
Marching, the great winds blew their flaming trumpets
Till each calm hill
Rose from a burning valley to fulfill
Its dream of second blossoming, the mortal
Cry of her own dream broke against the earth
With the sharp agony of second birth.

Compassionate, she knew
In this too perfect and suspended hour
(For second dreams are brief)
Tenderness for the green, unfallen leaf.
Trembling, she touched the aster's starry blue;
And plucked the last red dahlia, petal tossed,
From the dark fingers of the reaching frost.