FORSYTHIA

by Lyn Lifshin

all night wind blew
branches into the house

loud as horses in
blackness. A

dark dream of
death. Or worse,

something without
a name, your breath and

the cat's warmth
couldn’t warm me.

Sound of trees, the
clock. Season

of cruelty. In the
morning the black

hangs on like a
lover who leaves

traces. Only the
forsythia exploding

into sun seems
like something new


*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm