January is the cruelest month
From window no sound
squirrel tails, branches twitching
ground sighs, waits for snow.
Dried leaves wave on branch
tip of umbilical cord
grown new life outside.
Ochre, tan, dull brown
moist tree bark, wet moss faded
nature is tired.
Cold eyes blink, white-washed.
Will they remember color?
Spring three months away.
posted by jillypoet @ 10:10 AM
3 Comments:
hmmm ... I'm not sure how I feel about your title. But I like the poem, especially the second stanza.
:)
Jilly, or...Deb, or somebody. Now that I have managed to mess up the comments on Read.Write.Poem, I find I am not among the listed participants like I thought. What do I need to do?
It's a great poem. You should link it to RWP.
I fixed Joyce up.
:-)
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