The Clouds Color Themselves Pastel...

Prompt 4 of our Piccadilly "Write the Poem" challenge: Spring

At winter's end

I find myself anticipating

the season of new growth,

where flowers bloom,

and bees abuzz

in the gentle warmth

of blessed sunshine:


In the early mornings,

where the sun barely stretches

above the horizon,

and the clouds color themselves pastel,

the sound of morning doves

can be heard vocalizing their sing-song coos.

The sound eases my heart,

and instills a sense of peace within me.

Day's like those

remind me of my childhood.

Where I used to live,

in the quiet of the suburban;

the place where my mother,

siblings, and I lived;

where my mother's grandfather and grandmother,

lived before her.

Memories she recalled of her time there,

became memories I keep with me,

as they tell a bit of the tale

that was and is her existence.

My mother often brings me clarity

in times when I am most confused.

My thoughts,

like a dead winter,

where her words

thaw me like Spring.

Perhaps that is why

I hold the season so closely

to my heart.

As a reminder of better days,

and strength that arose,

from previous months' storm.

May Spring always come,

I surely miss you when you leave. 


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