In this warmer than normal winter,
the trees are budding early,
in February’s
rain instead of snow.
I feel I ought to go outside
and bring some soothing tea,
play a tranquil song
for harp and strings,
be the sandman for a spell,
send the rousing leaves-to-be
back into their shells,
lest the winds return from the north,
puddles freeze over,
and greening branches waken
to a bird-less lie of ice.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp
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