Spring Morn
The wind is whistling
A beautiful sound to me
As I stand in the meadow
Baby birds chirping
As they sit in their twig nest
Which crunches as they stagger
The stream is trickling
Down the tranquil mountainside
As it carves out its design
Mice are scampering
In the quiet underbrush
While returning home.
Now the crunch of grass
Is under my wet sneakers
As I return to the town
Copyright © Savannah Rose Harper | Year Posted 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment