Log Cabin Chronicles

Fourth poem in a series



Brooks gurgle mindlessly
Through meadows too young to be green
Picking up the winter's litter
And transporting it to pristine waters

Acres of trees casting off ice
Trying helplessly to bud
To make us believe
Winter is behind us

Birds, unquestioning, returning
Mindlessly chirping false harbingers
Looking for food
Still under ice

Deer the only realists
scaping snowbound woods
Finding sun-cured spots in fields
Where reality dictates to need

We too need
But are ever aware
Of the foreboding season
We call spring


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Copyright © 1998 Doug McKenny/Log Cabin Chronicles/04.00