To watch spring get poured on the land,
As if from a vast pitcher, a little at a time,
And to see the flowers budding,
In the place where those drops fall,
Is nourishment for a thirsty soul,
Weaned on grey clouds and hard frost,
And the many fanged winds,
For half a half a year.
And with a deep gripping sigh,
You stride out to take your place in it,
The tiny smile curling on your lips,
Remembering not the past winters.
YOU ARE READING
The Quiet Strangers
PoetrySometimes I think poems are like quiet strangers in the corner of the room waiting to be known. Only when time is taken to approach them is their richness revealed. Here you will find poems on nature, loss, hope, and the soul. Simple topics some mig...
