Blow slowly, wind, and whisper through trees of winter lace,
past standing rocks that hint of children,
other seasons, other days,
past little firs like feathers shed by a molting bird,
past moss and leaves of summertime,
dead, alone, forgotten,
past icy mountain rivers choked with junk and debris,
past frozen ponds and melting snowmen,
telling of the coming spring.
Poem ©1981 by Catherine A. Hampton. All rights reserved. Do not republish or distribute in any form, electronic or hard copy, without the author's permission.
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