Folly Flows

He sends out His word and melts them;
He causes His wind to blow, and the waters flow.

Psalm 147:18

Trees speak, “Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip;
singing a sad lament of distant spring.
Droning tones, empty from any truth.

The woods are a stir, dazzled, confused;
as January marches in long hesitation.
Small foliage pops up, shades of jealousy
in dollops of thin, icy snow now shrinking.

Pines stand stately, straight, still awaiting
their turn for the next season’s celebration.
Still I hear a drip, drip, drip as I march
down muddy, slippery path in dazed fright.

The sky is gray; horizon filled with fog.
Crows are alive: calling, calling, calling
speaking truth, “Winter’s not finished.”
Cawing ever so loudly in empty, dense air.

“Winter has not finished its damage here.”
Yet, the small green foliage peak through hibernation drinking in the melting slush
wondering when it surely be their turn.

Strolling slowly, on muddy path, wondering
if the trees know when the next snow
comes; snow so thick, even April couldn’t
thaw it, I wonder with each careful step.

Each pace I trod mud mingles with slush treacherous as I steady my self with a staff.
Yet, I’m out here in the mix of slush and mud
wondering what oddity this day may bring.

Trees speak, “Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip;
singing a sad lament of distant spring.
Droning tones, empty from any truth.