Fiddleheads On the River Walls
I know it's there somewhere beyond the clouds,
beyond the snow which gently floats and falls
on arborvitae's shoulders like a shawl
and o're the face of summer with a shroud.
Above where prayerful birches rise unbowed;
and stand once more among the proud and tall,
no longer will the season be forestalled
once the gifts of nature are endowed.
Across the forest floor the winter's chased
by waves of green now stirring in the frost -
impatient youths who gasp first springtime breaths
and proudly flaunt the colors they replace,
while buried hints of Autumn are embossed
beneath the ice that feeds upon their death...
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