Spring
Walking from the field, snow heavy on my boots,
the sound of water whispers beneath the thawing blanket
so tenaciously clinging to fertile mother earth.
Ancient furrows of past season's hope
plow through frozen dirt,
the veins that now flow gently
with blood of red clay and dark soil.
Patches of green I see, formed from lost seeds,
sown by invisible hands as winds reaped life
from last evening's sowing,
before mother pulled her white sheet
tight over hilly breast to sleep through winter's dream.
Green like season's beard to be shaved
before new seed can be planted.
The gate swings easily as I push it, the snow has melted here.
Looking back the awakened ground shimmers
like tomorrow in the morning sun.
Yet, there before me the rutted path
filled with frozen boot prints from years of fading memories
reminds me from where I have come.
04/22/2018
Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2018
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