I Wait Impatiently

Some spring. The sun is loath to shine. The harbingers
Of lushness have not come. The redbuds are not red.
The poor forsythias remain so modestly attired as
A redneck preacher's wife would be. They've not yet
Yielded to temptation, not yet set their souls aflame,
And I, thus, fuss and grumble. Where's the pale
And lovely sky? Where are the blossoms and the leaves,
And, for that matter, where are you? The winter, it is
Said, is over. Come. You're also pale and lovely.
Sit by me and warm my hours, even as the season's
Joys resolve to stay away.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 73 times
Written on 2018-04-21 at 22:25

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