Proflogate in Love.

It is a good year for forsythia.
late this year as if saving up
for a particularly bright, full flowered display,
an explosion, not uncommon in this place of late winters,
but somehow, more so this year,
a perfect timing of insanely joyful flowers,
late in the season when I needed it most.

I am told, but those who study such things,
that the timing and brightness is a magical mix
of warmth and rain, and an occaisionnal cold spot
to slow it down. A mix of the perfect soil,
changing each year as things die around us,
and fall on and in the earth. Biology. Chemistry.

I prefer the irrational explanation,
that God knew I (and perhaps other)
have suffered too much grief to bear this year,
and waited until I needed the color the most.
And the rest of the world be damned,.
The timing is, in my heart, an act of a God
proflogate in love.

About this poem.

It has been a good year for forsythia. This photo was taken behind my house,
Flowers. Loss. Faith. Love. Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom