Spring, my youngest child,
Here’s looking at you, kid!
A river splashes and babble’s,
Through mountains of
Hungry flowers spread-out,
Like decorations that fall
Out of boxes, left on steps,
Of the cabin built in winter.
Summer, the humid pines,
Have grown into gorgeous
Creatures. Still branches
Block light by the old
Dilapidated woodshed.
Afternoon airs are cool,
Where rapid ants are
Devouring a fallen bird.
Autumn, a call from
Down the distant valley,
An abandoned school,
Is being reabsorbed.
Flashes of silver trout,
Break the surface of
Sproat Lake, momentarily
Disturb the calm.
Winter turned hard,
And icy, beneath a log,
It is a freezing racoon.
Cursing blinding fog.
But our toes are snug,
And the stitches of
Our blankets will hold,
For the spring-thaw.
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