poetry & things

When winter goes

When winter melts

footprints of mud, this path

now a screen of green

I cannot see, lost I listen for

calling words, the haunt of forest birds

cry, they call before the storm

deep a swell of rain pours

that wild, brings another Spring

mossy soft this budding floor

mist and petrichor that waft

attract, they meld and melt

sweet into the soul

Post navigation
Scroll to top