Beneath benign
shadow blankets
smothering core of self
in doubt
(–these deadened slate gray skies of lead that murk the quirks of living depth–)
belong multifarious
steely feels of rounded things in sync
left out:
Glowless polychromic thoughts
of alignment Timeless in their
inklings,
prodding hopes reality
still will shout
the words that ring
in truthful sing
all what-if songs to
tout in Spring.
Like Happy patch of
brightwet grass surprising eyes with
emerald green
The way the snow sootstained retreats
in melt to full reveal
selfsame patch of waterbright grass surprising eyes with heal of feel.
