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.

Out of Nature’s Bones

I was rambling about my hate-hate relationship with winter, when a lady said, “I know what you mean. These damn months always remind me of getting ugly and dying.” The comment caught me by surprise. Not only because the lady had no idea what I meant (I just hate cold weather), but because I have never equated getting old with ugliness. Beauty changes with time, that’s true… but time doesn’t kill beauty. Only people do that.

Anyhoo, here is a haiku trio that embraces beauty that comes with time:

after the first spring,
new miracles do flourish
out of Nature’s bones

the sun shines
in the fallen leaves
of New York

time-caressed blossoms
evolve under winter’s kiss,
showing new beauty

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for Poets United.