Green shoots from the hip, was Spring’s only joke…
…but it was true. After the iron grip of ice and rime,
the weltering slush on the downhill slide from winter,
soil was breaking free, the yellow coils of tomorrow
were already unfolding in light wind with a small rain.
© BH, 2024
This was an exercise with our local writers group. Seemed to go well, I thought. Now it’s your turn!
Four verses, four illustrations. But it’s all one poem.
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