Rain is in the air,
and green upon the grass, upon
the lichened limbs and trunks of trees,
green of impending spring, eager
from the wash of rain; the buds chafe
to blush with lush again
and earth and sky forgets the plague,
forgets the curse, so breathless
to rehearse the yearly pageant of
the fall’s reverse.
Prophesy, you cleansing rains,
you greening fields and prickling buds!
Make of our memento mori
the promise of new life to be.