Death's not the victor, after all;
the equinox comes as a scold;
Life cracks the ground in shades of green,
throws off the lethargy of cold,
And wakesand grows from fertile seeds,
aroused from dormant winter's night
When dark was tantamount to death
and hope lay idle, out of sight.
Living on the boarder between
Valentine Day and despair,
Looking back, then on ahead,
always to find you there.
Back to those old memories
too fond for me to lose,
On to daily fantasies,
too many from which to choose.
But here, still on the border,
I hesitate, alone:
Dear father, please forgive the way
I’ve cursed and defied you,