By Thomas Page
The quality of mercy—
The groves of the heart—
Seem to bloom when the air is ebullient
And wither when the air is dense
With the situations associated with the hurricanes
Gusting away all senses humane.
However, the fruit of mercy should not be confused with the seeds of discontent
Which like cherry cyanide hopes to poison the roots of clemency—
Puckering the face of good intentions
Making the taster a lumberjack to the grove
And ending the springs forever.
Can the blossoms show the fruit of its harvest
When the purloining hands seek to pluck
And affix it to the strands of carefree hair
Like that of the absaloms and samsons
Before the thorns pluck the strands
Like a gutted guitar in minor keys
Wailing about fortune’s bitter produce?
Can the fruit show the bounty of its meals
When the armed hands with Ceres’ tools
Forget about the steward’s toils in the roots
And blame the spoiling of its stock not on their truancy
But on the very fabric of time which seeks to gray them
With the vigor of the scythed farmer in the golden fields
Surround the grove where the trees see it all happen before?
What is the value of judging a springtime plant in its winter
Or demanding a wintertime meal be as vibrant as spring
When the eye forgets all the lights it sees as soon as it bats
For even a second?
