Thunderstorms grumble
this first March dawn.
The sun hides, shamed,
from the downpour.
Crows drip from bleak wires.
Spring is a lie on the lips
of budless branches.
Life can only be
what it is, when it is.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
Thunderstorms grumble
this first March dawn.
The sun hides, shamed,
from the downpour.
Crows drip from bleak wires.
Spring is a lie on the lips
of budless branches.
Life can only be
what it is, when it is.
