
Don't Tell Me Too Much
BY GENEVA LORRAIN
Don't tell me that Spring is coming
or that things will change.
Show me the swelling on the bare limbs
of the pregnant trees.
My heart will not see it today
with the rain that is falling
on unsung blue violets
under the oak trees
nor the roses that have only
the thorns.
The old woman will walk alone
under skeletons waving in the winds,
gray and sullen stones will lie cold,
letters erased by age
and books will mold and become
unreadable.
There is a thin line on the horizon
and that is all I need.
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