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:
Spring.
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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