Early Spring

Bitter wind and bright green buds...
too soon...too late?
Who knows the whims of nature? They flow upon a stream
until the suns of unborn spring
stir their slumbering dreams. They rush with eager faith,
bursting forth with petal jewels
beneath earth's golden crown. And there they wait,
interned in frozen tears.

by James Hartsell

Other poems of JAMES HARTSELL (2)

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