First Spring

by Madeleine Roberts From the first spring we learned enough  of mauve and purple petalstuff,  wisteria curled in peacock plumes,  and Eden’s honeysweet perfumes,  to know that dying never fits  the ground, and though the earth forgets  the sound of its revival song,  the winter cannot linger long.

Sun

by Madeleine Busse Streets stained white with salt  Like bleached desert bones  Nakedly reflect cold light,  Bordering grass brown from snow now gone.   On my walk to class, the sun emerges:  The wind still slices, but the sky is blue  Windows once grey glow with midmorning   Stone walls catch

Flood

by Madeleine Roberts When the rocks cried out for weeping  I knelt to the ground and wept.  This sphere is too great for cupped hands   like water at the fountainhead  overflowing, baptism of reflections.  I am quiet multitudes past   the sum of my fears, though the hours waver  in high