Con Artist at the Door

I watch the sun rise, its light flooding through
The lifeless fields like water, but I wait.
It's winter still. The air is not yet warm,
Nor does it bear the scent of growth returning.
March itself has just arrived, but, in its fashion,
It is here with promises which can't be
Kept, pockets which have nothing in them.
Once at work, in weeks to come, it probably
Will keep its word, but, for now, hope's
Unwarranted. I'm going to have to wait.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2021-03-03 at 15:00

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