An ovule, a blade

By, Mark Kroytor


The little bird sings not far nor near

so let it be; I’d say,

If this should be spring then I may go onto it

Moments of clarity are seldom long

(I scribble in my journal: “remember this”)

Let it be more than a season

that a brave daffodil sprouting overmuch

And heaven is rife, no thinner in unknownness

I perch here patiently for the glory at bay


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