by Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger

Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger

Thin twigs like otherworldly veils 
emerge from slender birch trunks 
and the silence, ceremonial, 
as if shielding the sky 
from the rapture of birdsong. 
Muddy, brown paths. And a blossoming tree 
discovers this new world.

Grass barely sprouts. 
All the firs re-green 
and a papery, yellow butterfly 
dares to rest on a sun-drenched bench.

This does not suit a green fly at all: 
isn’t the sun only for me? 
Only tips of the blackthorn whisper: No!

Last updated January 10, 2023