Words, like winter’s soft spill
are absorbed by a wanting earth
to fold into itself
in case of drought.
Although underbrush may shiver,
may crack sticks together
and wind tries to hush them,
they come.
I hear
whirling, twirling, in dance of poetry
down to a listening earth,
a thousand thousand new voices
mewling against mother root
who will hold them,
feed on them.
Come spring, will clap at them
to rise more lovely
and every response ever needed
will sing green
in case it might be too late.
Sh,
heaven is telling me something
on sift of snow.
Author notes
jpg = Winter-Flight-Bob Timberlake
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Comments
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This is wonderful. Thank you very much for entering the contest, good luck.
♥
whisper
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