Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Then, At the Very Thought Of It



From this...


to this...



 I needed to dig out some 'green-gold bliss'. we are in a long deep, cold spell...


Beneath a sleek and silver sweep
The songs of summer soundly sleep
Tuning the tempest-stricken deep
With hope of spring and things to come
Then, at the very thought of it
The frigid noon-day thaws a bit
And draws the mind to pause and sit
Warmed by a sigh where zephyrs strum

And where mute tree-limbs creak and groan
With winter’s brute- bleak monotone
A gentler melody enthrones
The place that waits for green-gold bliss
Then suddenly, the heart laughs, wild
With hope of foot-loose summer-child
For where ten-thousand sun-beams smiled
Our famished faces sense spring’s kiss

We press our wishes to Time’s glass
Where snow-swaddled arrangements pass
In twirling, swirling choruses
Like minuets of hide-and-seek
While earth, a meek ice-mantled rose
Let’s old Man Winter tweak Her nose
And toes with howls; for oh, she knows
She holds a garden in Her cheek

© Janet Martin

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