Tree

of joy,

of pagan

rite, reaching out

on this silent night

rain your spores that all may

know, seeds of hope take and grow,

to bloom in man’s infertile heart

where once love stuttered, it might restart.

 

 

I have succumbed to the temptation of a reverse nonet. I don't often take part in these exercises but in the spirit of celebration thought I might. Thanks.