Under Winter’s Shroud

The woods wear brown, hints of green, and a scent I can never describe to anyone who hasn’t tasted snow as it melts under the sun… My toes dream of dandelions and grass that know blades are manmade nightmares. In my blood, Nature sings her everchanging song.

fall’s bones rot
under winter’s shroud,
feeding spring

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the wee notes…
– Many deliciously wild souls, in the Northern Hemisphere, are celebrating The Promise of Spring (or Imbolc or Brigid’s Day or… a few other names). Persephone isn’t back from the Underworld yet, but… spring’s coming.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United.