The Liminal Man

Writings of a man born between worlds

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Hope

July 3, 2025

In Spring, the year is young and shines the Sun
with joyful heat on blossoms fragrant fresh,
untrammeled yet by storm or scythe—each one
a mote of virgin hope in Nature’s crèche.
But Spring brings heavy rain. Unweathered blooms
unused to mud, and soak, and weighty sops
are pummeled to the sodden ground—perfumes
and petals throttled throughly by the drops.
They dry and rise (now stronger than before),
but then the bees come crawling through the air:
impatient, probing, asking more and more . . .
by June it’s weary flowers growing there.
But not forlorn! For though the Spring was ill,
warm Summer days and fruitful Fall may flourish still.