Winter drags
Bare branches sharp against
The limitless deep gray that would be sky
Feathery flakes drift now almost April
And we sigh clad for the cold grown old
Another deep gray afternoon
Becomes an even more gray twilight
We know in our bones
Spring's delay
Means late blossoms, blooms and buds
So we sigh
Knowing that even the rains' muds
We'd greet with the cry
Of kids in rubber boots
Stomping puddles into droplets
That hang in the air
Our Mother cannot renew
That whose death has come due
And we sigh
Though as we know in our bones
We know in our souls
Our Mother dies in pieces
A sacrifice to our emptiness.
Photo source: kylepost on Flickr (CC BY 2.0)