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Spring Landscape, c. 1915
William Langson Lathrop, American
Sonnet
The tree sits surrounded by flowers
as if they're waiting for it to tell its story,
but it stays silent sitting in all its glory.
It constantly glowers.
The sky is orange as the unseen sunsets,
The clouds hang low over a town in the distance
So low them seem to need assitance.
The sky has not reached darkness quite yet
The branches look worn down,
Worn down by the weight of life
So far away from that small town.
When will the tree finally tell its story?
Of how it came to be,
before all of its glory.
-RDB
YOU ARE READING
yonderly.
Poetrya book of me writting shitty poetry on art that i like occasionally or basically me writing about whatever i want.
