Each day, one sliver grows the moon,
until it’s full–
then, daily slivers shall it spurn,
in long nights dark and taciturn.

But, if we linger long enough, and look,
we will learn, that, somewhat soon,
with each month passed,
our sun’s faint glimmer
grows quiet, slowly,
ever warmer,
as its bright orb
climbs e’er to glow,

till the glory of our highest summer,

from where we,
here, now,
morning, night and noon,
still stand these dim days’ soaking shiver
of winter’s falling rain and snow.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Summer, Winter and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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