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?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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