Spring


Once again spring's foretold return
folds my running wild feet earth
into neat bundles of childish tales
where "the old age curse", inherit at birth,
laughs like a mystery moon with no sails.

Spring is a whirling, dervish, devilish urn
where I scatter my impressions like a miller
to the insentient winds that no longer fill her.
Spring gradually decays like a pale pillar,
pregnant with winter, the ultimate painkiller.




Poetry by Bob
Read 628 times
Written on 2007-04-27 at 22:19

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Rob Graber
Spring as already pregnant with winter: How original! And, come to think of it, winter would be about none months away...
;-,?
2007-04-28


Saga
Ain't it the truth!!
2007-04-28