Rainy Days

The revelations of winter pass now, the captured moments of vertical strife, the stanchion of paper white birch forests rigid on the black scratch board of rocky hillock soon, these markers of winter will be hidden. The milky froth of frozen ground water with its watery tresses falling in a downward slashes passing over grey granite cliffs will disappear. Brave bits green will spring, rising succulent and sucking, hungry as the red tipped maples tonguing the foggy air. Winter weaned from the austerity of fast. The still white tombstones marking the hill will be hidden behind verdant forests of poplar, beech, maple and rampant evergreen. Each structural element, each under pinning pining for the cloak of spring, craving an end to the cracked and chapped existence, longing for the robin’s song, and the worm’s rise. Dreaming of golden dandelions as the rain tinkles down.