Waiting In the Wings
Sunlight weaves in between
twigs of skeletal trees.
And a web of shadows
dances with each feisty breeze.
A silver sky shimmers
like cheap carnival glass.
And yet, this fickle sun’s
too weak for blades of grass.
Snow accumulates on
branches that almost break.
And bow low to the ground
with the weight of each flake.
Sugar maple sap waits,
not even one sweet drip.
And snowmen aren’t melting,
frozen in Winter's grip.
Spring's not on stage, quite yet,
She's waiting in the wings.
But I can almost smell
the flowers that She brings.
(Quatrain)
2/25/2015
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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