At Home At Last in the Mansion

By Roy Doughty
Written 4/16/07

We have walked and walked, meticulously mapping
The self-sanctified discipline of our measured steps
For days and months and years, believing
It might be possible to fly by plodding
Determinedly through Time’s deep snow,
A white that buries white in that bright darkness
Of ultimate barren cold. But today, today, the calendar
Annuls its grid, and everywhere bees hum
The ancient, newborn serenades of spring.
Our discipline dissolves into devotion.
Here are the trees, great panoplies of green,
Swishing their gladness through elated blue.
“The day of days is now,” sings that one voice,
And in its vast pavilion we rejoice.

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