Mid-Seasons
It is February and the air still stings,
But stirrings of spring can be found.
Atop a telephone pole a bird sings,
And little things move in the ground.
It is a time that surely heralds hope
That the greyness will turn to green.
It is earth’s sweet, solemn note
Warmer, softer days will be seen.
Late snowstorms are water-laden
Bathing buds on bushes and trees.
Nature is an awakening maiden
With coy promises in every breeze.
This twixt-seasons time is a part
Of the ribbon that wraps up a year.
Learning to embrace it is an art
That keeps love of nature near.
Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2015
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