In March
One task awaits the baffled will;
But yesterday, kneeling there,
I foresaw the ineffable
Less ambiguous to face
Alone, despite the lack of grace…
Then lightly, down the Easter air,
Brittle in its rigorous chill,
Three amber bees rowed carefully
Near, to spy, with musing hum,
Heather and chrysanthemum.
I stared as I knelt,
Querying resurrection brave
Enough to quest what honey dwelt
Meagre by a three-years’ grave;
And heart felt—thought mind despised—
A rune, cruelly disguised.