The Easter Tree 2020. A poem by Anton Floyd

April, the forsythia someone planted
sprays saffron, joys a fleeting life.
It, like birds in flight, links continents,
mocks frontiers. Both shine in song
upon an anxious world. It is not just
the crying child at night that intuits
that it is alone. The human heart
bears the weight of the future.
The moon and the stars, the sun
and, closer to home, the mountains
are indifferent to our joys, our griefs.
Who then will care? Beauty is a chance
of nature, a pulse in history, a gift.
It is diminished when glimpsed alone.