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.

59 thoughts on “Under Winter’s Shroud

  1. Ah Magaly–you manage to take a *very* written-about subject and make it your own, full of sighs and whispers in the winter dark. Every word of this rings real and clear–and how something primal (and I like to think, female) within us makes us long for that place where *all* manmade blades and other implements of mutual destruction are nightmares. Thanks for kicking the entire weekend’s derriere, and ushering in a pagan dance or two, as well.

  2. Really love that scent… so true, snow has a scent you cannot really describe, but always remember. Love the connection to bones and blood.

  3. This is absolutely exquisite both in words and image ❤ I love how you declare the arrival of Spring with that delicious haiku 😊 and am swooning over “Nature sings her everchanging song”… sigh…❤

  4. Ah, indeed there is so much ‘rot’ from fall and winter, but without it we would not have the green of spring! My toes are dreaming of dandelions too. Smiles!

  5. Well Persephone is flouncing around here in her summer skirt for another month until she turns up for your Spring to do it all over again.Greeks did not know about Down Under when they wrote that…you can skip winter:)

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