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Hawthorn
by Stephen Mead

Flower in winter, a genetic oddity,
that sentimental risk.
Every few years it happens,
pink blossoms the frost melts on-

Over hills, the gusty bluffs,
beside towers packed crisp
in the snow's cold opalescent glow,
the stark tenacious brambles
scramble & loop tendrils
until gentleness, miraculous,
yields only more soft
redeeming silk.
























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