Even when
the summer
coming out of spring
spreads broad the land
in years-deep parch,
leaving only sparse
and weaker green,
for many miles
to be seen. . .

though it’s hard
for your mind’s eye
to see
fat flowers
where a meadowlark
could perch,

let alone
the cold, wet power
of plenty mountain snow
and low rain showers
enough to fill
our reservoirs,

or heap aplenty
cold soft snow
on which you glide
and feel as if you fly,

in the thorough, deep delight
as your inner fire
and limbs and stem
in the pleasure
of your skiing.

But you can have it
in your heart,
and that can start
right now–

when you let pulse
the feeling
of your dream.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Seasons, Spring, Summer, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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