Waiting In The Wings


Sunlight weaves in between
twigs of skeletal trees.
And a web of shadows dances with each feisty breeze. A silver sky shimmers like cheap carnival glass. And yet, this fickle sun’s too weak for blades of grass. Snow accumulates on branches that almost break. And bow low to the ground with the weight of each flake. Sugar maple sap waits, not even one sweet drip. And snowmen aren’t melting, frozen in Winter's grip. Spring's not on stage, quite yet, She's waiting in the wings. But I can almost smell the flowers that She brings. (Quatrain)