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?

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