What ancient rites
	Will fill
	The nights,
	Light the lights,
	Dispel the spites
	Of winter's chill?
	What birds
	Will sing of spring,
	Letting voices trill
	And ring?
	What sun will shine
	On snow so
	Old and cold,
	'Til brooklets run
	Pure and fine,
	While leaf and vine
	Their green
	Arms entwine 'round
	Trunk and limb
	And crevice rim?

February 1977

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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