the poet awakes

i cannot but speak the words that form deep within me
they are cloistered for a season
in my innermost being
but without warning they spring forth
like the hardy crocus
reaching out of the cold earth
towards the sun that warms its very core
and if you are one that anticipates the beauty of this wellspring season
and dares to wander among the dead and frozen
you may hear the amarathine voice call out
and surprise you with its vigor and delicacy