Cold (and blossoming)
Cold is the frost
returning,
across the blossoms
of early April,
falling in flakes
of ice upon
the frozen
hardened ground,
for the wind
still whispers across
the morning silence,
beneath the tree tops,
standing motionless,
in ancient times
profound.
As above their age
and wisdom,
the sullen skies
cover new life,
in cloaks
of steel and grey,
as dawn
wraps the sun
in invisible songs
of springtime,
as hope rises
from the distant chime
of bells and birdsong,
the birth
of life
for another day
And as feathers
of snow tumble
from the heavens,
tickling spring
in her remembering,
summer waits
upon her dreaming,
the birth,
of summer
to come
upon the month
of May,
in twig and branch
a trembling.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
