With bell-cries from the withered grass,
a lone-wolf scent and tart-taste gloom
is rising from this winter’s pyre, while
YOU — my serpent — you tempt me with
the slingshot promises of sapling-birth.
“The grass will grow again”, you claim
and I let down my tender roots, seek moisture
in the recent scars of frost-fried soil.
And deeper still I seek and find the buried
joy November took… and now we wait
in bird-eyed bliss for buds to burst in yet
an April of rebirth.
Linked to Susie’s prompt at toads.
April 18, 2019