By Don Iannone
April 11, 2004
Dearest trumpet-shaped flower.
Virtuous mother of rebirth.
You remind us, ever so well,
of early springs, when
we were much younger.
Should we never forget you are the
white-robed apostle of hope.
Gracing all about you.
Your sweet scent lingers
far after you’re gone,
In you, we resurrect
our faith in something larger.
Something eternal.
Something magical.
Something infinite
that lives on inside all of us.
Poetic Alchemist 