The dawn, as yet . . .

Rose names are a little funny. In Idaho, we have a pink rose called

Barbara Streisand. We read that she insisted on a rose having a fragrance

if she was going to allow then to name it for her. 

But this, rose, Mr. Lincoln was named for Honest Abe

without his permission. and really has very little fragrance.

However, we think it is one of the best red roses

and the buds have this truly beautiful, urnlike form.

Vernal

Some things we believe cannot be redeemed.

But in a valley the Railroad finally forgot,

the silted sluggish ditch we would not eat fish from

runs again, a river, rilled as before

by clear water, not black. Grass grows back

between tracks and rails. Limestone spalls

hews from the mountain heal into soil.

Stumps heaped with live coals, split, and winched out,

in spring frail a new circlet of green.

Panthers are seen. A son is born blue, and lives.

Some things we believe cannot be redeemed,

but the dawn, as yet, is diurnal. The woods keep

a hushed vigil. then rustle with life we cannot see;

small ponds well from the ground when we sleep.

Rebecca Foust

Paradise Drive; poems. Press 53, 2015, page 82.

Here is another sonnet, very hopeful, from this poet 

so new to me. As much as I like sonnets, 

I have never tried to write one. Have you??

I am on Facebook with an group called American Rivers
which frequently publishes pictures of rivers that have been. 
or are being, restored. There are still some things to be happy 
about amidst all the environmental bad news.