My feet crunch on white-sculpted tufts of grass
By a tree-rooted path leading back home
The groud frozen, once muddy morass
Changed by time's metronome;
This time of year I hate
This gateway to the Spring
When skies of slate
The leaden doom-clouds bring;
But if it didn't exist
Spring would not be the same
When nature, ever the artist
Paints lances of cold flame;
How can Spring's coat be worn
Eyes once shut, opened wide
How can something be re-born
If it never died?
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Author:
pgreed (
Offline) - Published: January 20th, 2025 07:29
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
Great write
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