The Difference of Winter- a poem


It was not winter til the north wind blew.

 unfastening leaves and branches too. 

Revealing the secrets of spring long passed-

Songbird dwellings now known at last.

The chill of winter does bruise the reed,

 yet tenderly scatters its’ tiny seed.                                                                                               

Blackbirds pepper up the sky

 for they know winter cold is nigh.

Gardens look like empty rooms                                                                                                     

when void of anything that blooms,                                                                                             

and  a pasture , like a vacant lot,                                                                                                   

without the colt to dance a trot. 

The old oak stands with barren bough                                                                                           

fields lie untended by man and plow-                                                                                         

Behold the frozen ponds and lakes-                                                                                               

Oh, what a difference, winter makes! 

Happy Winter, love Michele

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According to the Sparrows


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At last, I think it safe to say, that spring is finally here-

according to the sparrows, the robins and the killdeer,

They gather little trinkets to carry during flight-

and sing a joyful prelude, before the morning light.

 

The dogwood and azaleas bloom throughout the southern land-

and glory now abounds, by the “touch of the Masters’ Hand”.

The jasmine in the woodlands hangs like strands of golden rain-

and violets bloom in dappled light along the path again.

Tender grass and just born leaves, paint the world in jade-

and where the sun beams used to fall,   becomes a patch of shade.

To spend a day in early spring, brings our heart such cheer-

For all the earth does celebrate when spring is finally here!

The Brave Little Daffodil-a mostly true poem


Very far away from me,

across the wild and open sea,

A brave little daffodil blooms,- I know,

because a fairy told me so.

He asked the rose to come along-

and the coral bells to sing their song-

But only the brave little daffodil.

had the courage and the will.

And so one cold and dreary day,

when springtime seemed so far away,

The fairy spied his gift of gold-

blooming, in the world so cold-

and so she did , what we all should-

she shared, when she found something good.

 

November Time


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A day in November is often born,

on  a frosty, foggy, chilly morn.

With the smell of  wood smoke in the air,

while  ruby leaves fall here and there.

The early light is soft, but yields,

a holy look to woods and fields.

A silent prelude heralds the day,

for song birds mostly flew away,

to somewhere north or south or west,

leaving behind their empty nests.

In November, without a rush, 

days are born in a silver hush,

like a precious gift, for all the living-

Let all of November be called Thanksgiving!

Song of Summer


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Oh dear summer, must you go,

and take with you the fireflies glow?

Must you take the summer flowers,

and all the lazy, leisure hours?

Little rabbits and the songbirds

won’t be seen and won’t be heard,

The fragrant blossoms on the vine,

couldn’t one be left behind?

Must I put my spade away,

for such a far and distant day?

 

Oh, summers come and summers go.

I have noticed, none are slow-

but summer does not leave us stranded,

destitute or empty handed.

Seeds the summer wind, has strewn,

awaits to make their presence known-

Instead they wait with hope, til when,

The time called summer, comes again.

Farewell to May


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In May, the fields of sage turned white-and fireflies flashed their little light.

The scent of elder filled the air and not a single tree was bare-

The winter wheat was spun to gold and sunshine chased away the cold.

 The “Quiet Garden” caused much ado, for roses bloomed in every hue-

The “Bob White” sang his name in May-and little rabbits came out to play.

May is too kind to leave us stranded, and does not leave us empty-handed-

Instead, May gave us, in good measure, a host of things to praise and treasure.

The smell of clover, I’ll remember, one chilly night in late September.

When January comes with ice and snow,  I’ll think of May, when the iris grow.

April is the Time to Wander


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In April, when the world is splendored,

when trees and flowers bloom unhindered-

for the danger of frost, has finally past,

and little violets abide with grass-

I vow , my time I will not squander . . .

And April is the time to wander.

I think to traipse, the whole world over,

with hope to find a patch of clover,

or to look for a wild and fragrant vine,

or  to spy a redbird in a pine,

implores the heart, to pause and pray,

for the beauty of an April day.

Hence, I promise, not to waste.

a moment in April with rushing and haste.

Instead, I’ll stroll by field and wood,

and see  April  declare that God is good.