Sonnet #168

It’s spring, high spring, where all the green is true

And all the blossoms break even in deep woods

A walk upon a shaded path, a scent so good

It made me stop and trace the breeze through

To mysteries of vacant copses, shielding trees

What thing, what flower, what bloom is this?

Somewhere in that dense shade a scream of bliss

Exploding in some tiny bloom I cannot see

The passing breeze blows all away and I,

no more certain of any scent but damp

for it rained last night, none left but try

to search the petrichor, the paths of tramps

the sweet rot of vegetation as it dies

Oh, secret flower, oh sacred memory’s stamp

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