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Kara Shirlene Mar 2021
The wonders of Springtime
Whisk me away.
The glisten of raindrops
So freshly they lay.
The chirping of birds,
Sweet songs do they sing.
With echoes of laughter
They joyfully ring.
A newness of life
As sprouts start to bloom.
A colorful sight!
Ridding Winter's dark gloom.
The magic of flowers
Stretching up toward the sky.
Green grass all around them,
The aromas sublime.
The buzzing of bees
Hum happy and free.
In fields of wildflowers,
What a sight to be seen!
The wonders of Springtime
Fill me with bliss!
Naught a happier sight
To be seen than this!

©KSS 4/2015
Happy Spring Equinox!
Momento Mori Feb 2021
It is the winter
that makes the spring sweet.
Just like fall’s cool breeze
after summer’s heat.

The cold white expanse
and the leafless trees
wait expectantly
for the first spring tease.
I long for the Spring!
İlayda Korkmaz Sep 2020
The candle on the window was a-flickering,
Struggling to draw its light from the waning moon,
With the flames, the east wind was playing,
There as her proud vanguard, already waiting.

The crone herself had arrived at last,
With the clouds promising rain ******* her heels,
Those clouds were mimicking the sharp waves of her stormy hair,
And the spirits were all dancing with the thinning veil.

All raised their glasses to welcome the crone,
All revered the dark mother, whose might could never be surpassed.
They all knew that now they could reap what they had sown,
And sit by the hearth as the winds howled past.
Kat Schaefer May 2020
May’s departure reminds us
That winter’s wool jacket
Has been replaced
With spring’s fabric sandals

The morning frost
That caked our windshields
Is now but a glossy dew
That lays upon the grass

The late December chill
That weathered our flesh
And consumed our warmth
No longer can feast

June’s prelude will refresh us
The endless sunshine and subtle breeze
Will nourish us in preparation
For winter’s arrival once again
Mysidian Bard Dec 2019
Upon the deathbed of Old Man Winter
Autumn placed her golden crown,
and as his heart began to thaw
he helped Spring lace her morning gown.
Kalliope Nov 2019
feast your eyes onto this
soak it in
milk, blood, cherubim, and all
feast your eyes on this atrocity;
atrocity, tragedy, calamity
you can't help but look anyhow

tosses me into his bed
tosses me into his garden along with the tulips and chicken bones
waits for me to sprout next spring
i wonder how she'll be-
how she'll bloom
she'll spit ichor and honey through her teeth
annual or perennial
we'll never know

fret not, fret not-
breathe in the summer night
throw yourself down into the garden
bare your neck to the rose bush and forget it all
forget the cherubim
forget the milk
save the blood
save her
annh Sep 2019
They spoke to me of evenfall and dayspring, the solstice and the equinox. They sang of eras, epochs, and eons. On indigo nights, they whispered in the owl light of alchemy and enchantment, wreathing my cot with an iridescence which illuminated my dreams and begentled my slumber.

At Hallowtide, they scribed lyrical pathways in the air and sculpted rainbow arcs. They celebrated the vernal majesty of April and October's autumnal reprise with moonglade pageantry and sunset flourishes. They conjured blackberry winters and gypsy summers, and laughed at my amazement, as if to say: ‘Told you so!’

As the years departed my second decade and encroached alarmingly upon my third, I began to question why they had chosen me; why we walked together apart and apart together. I wondered where the magic ended and I began, and I realised with the bone-breaking chill of the unwelcome inevitable, just how lost I would be without it.

‘Magic exists. Who can doubt it, when there are rainbows and wildflowers, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars?’
- Nora Roberts
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