April Ruminations

Buds are those which

speak of a leaf’s egress.

Green is embryonic. Autumnal

scarlet/citrine—the time of

accouchement.

 

This is why they tumble—

 

like infanti

lurching through a

birth canal, the knees

a pair of sentries

dropping guard.

 

If the Earth’s indeed

their Mother,

why do we kick &

scatter them like they’re

stones?  In lieu of a

gentle cradle by

the hearth; a glimpse of

unrimed orange

in the flame—

 

a blaze to

warm their lifelines

through a winter’s

funereal dirge.

How glorious amid the

birdsong

their demise.

Andreas Gripp

April 3, 2026