In the dead of winter,
crows call out,
their song a splinter-
in the silence of doubt.
Spring is longed for.
Its warmth wanted more-
than ever before.
Though, in the time between,
beauty can be seen.
Winter’s icy breath,
is as silent as death.
As time slowly stills,
waiting for spring’s hills-
of flowers that draw in the rain.
As the chilly air is all that remains-
of winter’s comforting embrace,
when there’s only spring’s grace.
Posted in response to the challenge PAST CONTESTS: Spring '24: Writing Contest.
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