For one winter moment,
one brief twilight still,
the snowline draping the sills of the far peaks,
the chill, dark and troubling,
I worry for spring.
In the depth of its dark,
the veil of its night,
the slight season stirs, stretches the coming blush,
the grace of its entry,
a repose of rain.
Each season has its way,
Its own gift to give.
Spring proffers change, rebirth, earth sprouting anew,
a courtesan of hues,
a bountiful bliss.
Bill, Your description of spring is so perfect for this year. You strike a poignant chord in me. Each stanza transports me into the world you painted with your words: “…the slight season stirs, stretches the coming blush, the grace of its entry, a repose of rain…” All of my senses are engaged. Breathtaking!
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