Birds and flowers
at the gate;
Let them in…
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Clear skies not cloudy ones
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The dead ground comes to life again
under a warming Sun
Birds return to have some fun
People take off their heavy coats
This is the time I love the most
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But it’s the cloudy ones that bring the rain. It’s a cycle.
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petal drops on green abyss,
who in heaven asked for this?
take away my sweet refrain
teardrops flow
away the pain.
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This is really nice, daydreamer.
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So in the morning
The birds start calling
Migrating back from
Madagascar
That’s if you live in Australia or maybe Europe ,
The purest
pedals
A drop of rain
A bellyflop in the pool and the rain.
The trees wane
In the breeze
I’m gone from the crysantheam flowers pollinated by the bees
The leaves have such a rhythm
A prism
A shape and a thing
I wait for the spring
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I love this thread 
Ah, you’re just a tree hugger.
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Come, my beloved,
My love whom I long;
I, a hollow person,
Desire to know of
Thy beauty.
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Nice -
fifteen ch
the humble leaf
adorns the trees
once again
the birds return
to nests the same
seedlings sprout
shoots pop out
flowers hang their heads
in their beds
buzzing nectar filled
melted frost languishes
snow relinquishes the hills
fog repents from sinless shine
the haunting of winter reposes
spring suckles on the embers
as life once again resumes.
what do you think @pob ?
here is another i just written, i think they are both pretty good lol
Snowflake reposes over hill as
frost swallows natures bitter pill.
The creeping fog languishes in the mire
dreams of melting ice lick the fire
while the last embers prompt the
snow drop up to bud,
The hazy hilltops hide the dew drop flood
in brisk walks with a hearth of shine.
Breaking clouds awaken slow decline.
For ever thy sake or ever thine.
Sounds kinda like Sylvia Plath.
0
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The solemn guts of deep frozen winter
glare through the cutting icy waste
with an edge of sincerity it takes no prisoners.
The leaves of Autumns expose hardened and brittle
like an artists unwashed brush or dried palette
no colours here only bleak frosty whites
blistered with darkened undertones.
The snowflake hides a rotten blanket
of filthy matted waste.
And if such a serene landscape could lie
it would tell no tales.
But for Spring when
the truth is ploughed open
and new seeds are sown
birds seek new dwelling as the winter climes recede.
1 Like
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