Wait for It

21 Mar

a thought came
twirling down
from a graying November tree,
one of the last to fall,

‘look at all my crusts of death,
and answer me.

–bipeds of clay,
do you doubt when
howling winds, ice, and snow
our root to rock,
that Spring will squeeze
out of us
baby buds again?

for each change
the wintertime will become warm,
the dark will lift,
the lawns will need a cut
and misfortune will become
laughter again.’

bowing, the child of earth
hunkered down



© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) Limerict 2021

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Posted by on March 21, 2021 in Poetry


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