Near The Unborn Are Rising
Greening trees thatch a spackled sky,
but not yet.
Cardinals kick up patches of sound,
but not yet.
Winter is sowing Spring,
setting fire to mist and smoke,
planting flames onto a colorless sky,
coyote's itch in their dreams,
Do you imagine a smear of green
on the frozen mud,
or is it the new blood of the yet unborn?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
