written by: Ann Christine Tabaka
Saturday morning, silence
broken only by the wren’s
scolding trill. Cherry blossoms
bloom no more. Ice stares
down the last ray of hope.
Trees shake off day old snow
from barren limbs. Winter garden
dry, brown, dead, but not dead,
merely asleep. Hibernation mode.
Seasons march their pace.
They cannot be rushed.
Wait, we must. Rejoice
In nature’s wisdom.
There is no other path.
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