Spring

Poem By Herbert Nehrlich

The melting snow had barely now
revived the placid creeks,
gray-coated wolves were keen
to hump the loins
of those who would be proud
to show off bellies in the Spring.

There would be solemn sheep,
aghast against the breeze,
and welcoming the yellow fangs
of masters that had come
to claim their prey today.

No creature seemed to dwell
on what the meaning of
it all could be, as chaos ruled
it spat its righteous mist
into mosquito skies.
To die without a whisper there
and then. Who'd hear the cries?

A solitary squirrel, bushy-tailed,
slipped sliding down the path of sullen clay.
No wolf would ever get its precious hide,
at least until the dawn of yet another day.

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