Tis Fryday, the end of a brutal work week
and I’m nestled in the den surrounded by books, art and music.
Around the Block sings from the stereo; indie artists taking my breath away.
Its been raining for days, which is most welcomed as soil is very dry,
a silent thank you to the heavens for this life giving moisture.
With rain cooler temps arrive that cause the garden to halt its growth.
I survey the garden and see it being covered in a blanket of white.
No No No, this is not right, this is not Spring.
The twolips, having disappeared from existence for years,
finally made their appearance this spring.
Now they are being held hostage to the elements.
The lone Red Poll has landed in the bird feeder,
pecking at what is left after the Ravens feast.
Robin feeding her brood cuddles them into herself
anxiously living out the storm. Will they survive this temp?
Scillia’s, daffiies, lillies and yew are bound down
under the weight of white shite, Will they rebound?
I sigh remembering the garden just this morn was a carpet of green
now lays cloaked in white velvet.
You are no longer welcome here by any living creature.
Siren of Spring, where are you? Have you not the strength to battle him for rights?
Tis time Siren, herald your troops of a warm sun, gentle winds, and clear skies.
Banish him from this land for we have weathered enough of his follies,
we need a land of heat, a sky of blue, we need Spring.