The End of Winter
The moon cradles its swollen belly
Hung low over the mountains.
Geese feed among the dry, dead cornstalks.
The sky holds snow
And my black pumps are not up to the task.
A robin lies dead in the middle of the road
The wind futilely tickling its redbreast feathers.
I am dressed in funereal colors.
There is so much
And yet there is nothing
To mourn.
6 comments
Comments feed for this article
March 1, 2012 at 10:16 am
slpmartin
Wow…this is just packed wtih emotions…really a fine poem IMHO.
March 1, 2012 at 11:44 am
Seasweetie
Thanks, slp!
March 1, 2012 at 2:33 pm
Malou
Lovely poem! Looking forward to spring now. 😉
March 1, 2012 at 4:15 pm
Seasweetie
Me too, malou! Hope yours is soon coming!
March 1, 2012 at 4:19 pm
waywardbound
There is…
Read it several times today. I’m ready.
March 2, 2012 at 8:32 am
Seasweetie
Me too.