Vernal Equinox
by Larry D. Thomas



The purple martins
are circling the birdhouse
as if wrapping a package
with the silken, blue-black ribbons

of their flight. Even the sap
of the Bradford, sans the hope
of a single golden pear,
is stirred to selfless action,

climbing, just because it must,
rung-by-foliate rung,
the chartreuse ladder
of heaven.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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