Gently sighs the morning wind
in the limbs of bare trees,
soft murmurs tepid wind
over brown leaves beneath.
Where grasses break the ground
and the elder is showing first buds
Spring already refuge has found,
surrounded by puddles and mud.
Moss is greener than of late,
is creeping up the trunk’s feet –
slush, the color of wet slate,
is gripped by tiny hands of weed.
Still lingers sleet within the cloud –
the ditches carry yellow clay,
tits are announcing aloud
the arrival of Early Spring today.
© I. Beddies
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Irene Beddies.
Published on e-Stories.org on 03/15/2016.