A Time Not To Be Denied
written by: John Grey
The hills are dour.
Even the green is gray.
But a spark comes from somewhere.
The doleful sun?
The last dribble of thawed snow?
The final crackle of curled up brown leaves?
It could even be my bones,
moving more freely
without winter’s stranglehold
And there’s always the calendar,
declaring, without a doubt,
that weather’s page has turned.
Spring is here.
Mostly, it’s those bones
I listen to.
They’re old hands at this.
Old legs too.
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