By Melissa Baron
A beaten path carries me through the day,
Worn asphalt halves the land. So I journey,
Sloping down hills of brittle grass, dry clay
Thirsty for rain the clouds will not let free.
Naked trees with fingers locked from winter’s bite
Revive with warmer winds, loosening grips,
Thawing with the absence of winter’s might
And welcoming birds to rest on bare branch tips.
Many lament for spring’s green, wild splendor;
But I like the hushed air of spring to come,
Cold lakes, huddled forests waiting for
The chance to wear spring jackets, wreath flowers spun.
The promise of sweet things trembling in air’s
Fine space, soothes my soul greater than spring’s flair.