Perhaps

'haps it bodes of death and pending doom,
thrice night sky traversed by new moon.

Waxing then waning along its way,
Forced to swim upon its course,
And never stray.

Before the death of winters dream.
Where life once gain knocks at the door.
The squirrel cracks,
Red breasted robin, quietly peers.

A burst of life,
There springs forth.
Of daffodils,
In patches sown.

Yet winters last breath,
Yet to come.
And bury them,
Those upstarts
Before they've become.

And once again
Life pushes forth
Until the summer of our youth
Turns to the autumn of golden years

Wherefrom the beginning
We did start.

Shadedthoughts


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Regents Park