POEM

DAFFODILS

Photo: iStock

They flurry over the ffirst raw green of the hills,

Trumpet the Easter fields;

Bright flags with their orange yolks,

Bending under the flaying cruelty of April winds.

As if to prove that Calvin got it wrong,

That dark-lipped Luther in the cold austerity of history

Threw away the warm laughter of love

For the bare bones of theology.

Kenneth Steven

This article appears in the April 2018 Issue of Life and Work

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