Poetry Month

I haven't blogged a poem for National Poetry Month yet; I was just waiting for the right one to come to me. It's apparent if you've been reading here lately that I've been depressed, but I'm trying to be positive and focus on the it's-going-to-be-okayness. Looking at the tree outside my window this morning, I see little leaves trying to poke through the tips of the branches. Compartmentalizing for the moment the sadness I feel about the fact that it's probably already beautiful in the south, that the dogwood blossoms will probably already be gone by the 20th, which is when I'll be going down there again, I'm going to try to be hopeful. This morning I thought of this Dylan Thomas poem:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.