Notes From The Barnyard

 

Suddenly the grass is green
red buds tip the maples,
the pussy willows
now,
low, soft, yellow clouds above the marsh.

The voice of each bird melts into a single song

A strong, warm, spring wind washes away the winter
Clouds mix it up in the sky

The plotting rain,
first life before man’s God,
when the Earth was in her earliest season

I foolishly think it’s safe to put the snow shovels away.

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