an almost accidental gathering of poets
 
   
 
 
Rebecca Bailey
 (1993)
Rite Of Spring
I weep for the lowly worm
who has succumbed to the temptation
of a damp sidewalk, of wet concrete,
deceived by the newly birthed,
clever, lying oasis.

I weep for the hard deception
to which the innocent worm entrusted
its life of slime and dampness and fertility,
to expire unnoticed, unmourned, unremarked,
on a broken promise.
   
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