renaissance

i'm quietly waiting for the Spring that will never be

i'm silently hoping for the green i´ll never see:

for each and every, hiveless honey bee

flies fast away on fairy wings farther than i can flee

i'm quickly resigning myself to the churning of the sea;

i'm slowly learning i will never be as free

as the mockingbird nestled upon the nectar tree

since i can no longer sing with nearly as much glee

O! if only i could sing again—surely that's the key!

but one's Iris blossoms, at a costly fee

and there is no marigolden melody nor heartfelt plea

whose laureled bounty is grand enough to return my Voice to me.