Saturday, March 9, 2013
Where's my mud? Where's my spring?
Here where the slow light softly falls
on barren ground unstirred by spring
and frost still honeycombs the walls
there is no sound, no moving thing:
not yet the brush of leaf and wing,
nor yet the sturdy, dainty bloom
of poplars prophesying spring.
Here is no spring, not yet, not soon.
Only the lengthened afternoons
gathering up the winter days
and chilly geese beneath the moon--
winter yet, with winter's ways.
Posted by mittens at 10:51 AM