The cool crowded emptiness
seems hollow:
what we left so full of life
sealed for winter like
a bear in a cave
or a seed in a tomb—
all the intervening history,
rain, blowing dead leaves,
snow, icy winds
all is unknown.

Grass resurges
like fingernails underground;
we have to cut it before
green owns all this.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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