Life signs low.
But tide is high.

Seagulls guard
their new and stagnant
bay-filled lake,
a crater in the cool beach sand.

Sandpipers flit at water’s edge
and sit,
and flap and peck
and talk in wait.

Hell’s here
with bright light glare
upon the sundry flocks,
posed ‘neath the shining blue
with cloud white plumage,
as well as my beleaguered face,

But February’s in the air
and spring’s the thing
that may restore
things into swing,
as then returns
the glad heart chirping,
and squirrels and bees and butterflies
build holes and nests and pollinize
and mate.

And more rain showers
drench our bowers
and top off
rims of water barrels,
filled with drought-long-prayered-for-rain
to augment the prodigious totals
that we
in woe and glee
have seen to date.

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

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