The second poem in my Seasons quartet
When little is our last of hope to feel the warmth again,
When unexpectedly we wish, through tiring Winter-rain,
To feel the torrents pouring down from lazy snoring clouds,
But warm and wet and wondrously damp and drenching shrouds
That thaw the ice and nicely kiss the earth beneath the frost,
And pour so thick, so quick we find ourselves forever lost,
In labyrinths of streams and glimpsing gleams of morning puddles,
That cling to clothing thoroughly, caresses us and cuddles.
The rain that penetrates the soil and foils the Winter’s plot,
And brings to us returning life and love we once forgot.
The dandy strands of daffodils are tickled in the breeze,
And blushing-girl-hued blossoms whirl and prickle on the trees.
Even weeds are welcome, with their gossamer and power
To grow out high, defy the cold, and wildly, boldly flower.
A hem of border-lining stems is sewn by nature’s hand,
Dressing-up the child Princess that is the living land,
Returning to another year with cheer and brightened cheeks,
Sprightly dancing over fields for hours, and days, and weeks.
The older seasons can’t compare to fair and lively Spring,
Who lifts the air with care to share a feather from the wing
Of birds returning home from learning songs they’ve longed to sing.
The warming Spring who curtsies in the willows when we pass
The ready-steady-standing lambs that guzzle growing grass,
And smiles a while and giggles with the trusting guarantee
That we will see longevity of life upon the tree,
Its budding fruits, and mudding roots, and squirrels popping out,
Its little leaves against the breeze that sway and swish and shout,
When little was our last of hope to see what life’s about.
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